Lips touch
by BlueVase
Summary: UPDATE: this is now going to be 15 stories :). Ten AU ways that Sister Bernadette and Patrick could have had their first kiss (Inspired by the amazing work of Kienova) TW: assault (chapter 1), alcohol abuse (chapter 2), abuse (chapter 6)
1. Chapter 1

TW for assault.

Sister Bernadette almost walks past the dark alley. She's tired, having been up since before dawn, tending to patients during the day and delivering a set of twins till well into the night. If she's honest, she just wants to get back to Nonnatus, sterilize her equipment, and sleep a bit before Lauds. She should have been back by now, and would have been, if her bike hadn't suffered a puncture. As it is, she is forced to walk a good five miles back, hauling the heavy bike and her bag over the uneven cobbles of the streets of Poplar.

She's lost in her own thoughts as she passes the alley. It is darker than the ones surrounding it, owing to a broken lantern. The darkness inside seems almost impenetrable.

 _A great place for a crime,_ she muses, halting to push her glasses back up her nose. It is then that she hears a grunt and muffled shouting. The hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"Give it ter us, ye tosser!" a harsh voice. She is rooted to the spot, almost unable to breathe.

"I don't have any money!" A block of ice lands in her stomach. The words are spoken by a voice she knows, a voice she has dreamed about more and more the last few months: Doctor Turner.

"You rich cocks are all the same," a second voice, a lot more nasal than the first, claims.

"Now, hand over yer wallet and that nice watch," a third person commands. Another grunt.

Sister Bernadette knows she has to back away, needs to find a constable, but she can't leave Doctor Turner. There are three men there, mugging him. Before she can question her decision she puts her bike against the wall and strides into the alley. Her hands are shaking, but with fear or anger she doesn't know. She does know that East-Enders respect the nuns and midwives enough to leave them alone. This allows them to traverse the most unsavoury parts of Poplar without the fear of being assaulted. Still, being assaulted whilst on your way to deliver a baby or actually interfering in an on-going attempt to rob a man are two very different things.

 _My habit will protect me,_ she chants, repeating the words like a prayer. Her blood thunders in her ears, caused by the galloping of her blood through her veins.

Her initial plan is to command the men to let Doctor Turner go. She has to discard it as soon as her eyes discern that one of the three assailants has a stick as thick as a fist in his hand, and raises it to club the doctor. There's no time.

"Leave him alone!" she screams, and without a second thought she jumps on the man's back. He grunts in surprise. He's wearing a leather jacket. The material is slippery; she has to do her utmost best to not slide off. Sister Bernadette rakes his face with her nails. The man yelps, tries to shake her off. She clings to him as if he's a bucking horse, digging her nails deeper in the flabby flesh of his cheeks. The man drops his stick and uses both hands to try and get her off. One of his hands finds her wimple. His fingers close around the fabric and the underlying hair and yank. Sister Bernadette screams as she is dragged off his back by her hair. Hot pain shoots through her scalp. The strap of her wimple snaps. The man stumbles back, holding only the remains of her wimple and cap in his hand. Sister Bernadette lands on her knees, bruising them on the cobbles. Her glasses are no longer on her nose. Frantically she tries to find them, sweeping her hands over the ground, trying not to think about the slippery wetness her fingertips encounter. Her French twist has completely come undone; her hair spills over her shoulders, into her eyes.

"Yer little bitch," her attacker hisses in her ear. His breath smells sour.

 _He must have seen that was a wimple, he must have…_ she thinks, clinging to the thought that East-Enders don't harm nuns as the man kicks her in the ribs. All breath leaves her body as pain explodes under her ribs. Sister Bernadette opens her mouth to scream, but she can't even breathe. She falls on her side, curling up, making herself as small as possible. Her side is a throbbing mass of pain, a small star collapsing on itself, consuming everything around it.

Her assailant pushes her on her back. He's no longer alone; one of the other two men has joined him. In the dark and without her glasses she can't make out their features.

 _Where's Doctor Turner?_ she thinks.

 _Have they knocked him unconscious?_

"Hold her arms," her first attacker says. The second man moves, gripping her wrists and pressing them down. He smells of alcohol. His hands are calloused and slightly sweaty. Sister Bernadette understands what they are about to do in that moment. Panic and fear grip her. She kicks and flails, ignoring the stabbing pain in her side, but the men are out of her reach.

"I like it when they put up a fight," the first man says. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture is almost tender. Sister Bernadette whimpers in fear. The man puts his knee between her legs, forcing them apart.

 _He can't, I'm a nun!_ As the first man struggles to undo his belt the second man shifts, putting his knees on top her arms so he has his hands free. He starts pawing at her breasts, his movements rough and hurried. He doesn't trouble with the buttons of her habit, but rips the fabric. Cool air kisses her damp skin.

His hands encounter the wooden cross Sister Bernadette always wears. He picks it up, ready to toss it aside. When he realises what it is, he freezes.

"Fuck," he whispers. He lets Sister Bernadette go as if she's burned him.

"She's a nun!" A lot of things then happen at the same time. Several flashlights pierce the darkness as a group of policemen enter the alley. Sister Bernadette has to close her eyes against the sudden brightness.

"Police, halt!" Feet on the cobbles, moving away from her. Suddenly, the weight of her attacker on her disappears. Sister Bernadette clutches her habit against her chest, tries to keep it closed. She opens her eyes, squints, forces herself to see. Doctor Turner presses the man in the leather jacket against the wall with his arms against his throat. She has never seen him like this. His face is completely contorted into a mask of fury, his mouth stretched into a snarl that reveals his teeth. One of his eyes is already swollen shut and his collar is flecked with blood, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"You bastard," he hisses. The eyes of the other man are wide with fear.

"Let him go, sir!" one of the policemen urges, trying to pull Doctor Turner's arm away. The eyes of the man dressed in leather are starting to bulge and his face has taken on an impressive shade of purple. If Doctor Turner has heard the policeman, he gives no indication.

"If you've hurt her…" the doctor chokes on his own words.

"Sir, you are choking him!" The policeman is starting to sound frantic.

Sister Bernadette scrabbles up and places her hand on the doctor's shoulder.

"Doctor Turner, please let go." Her throat hurts. Her voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but at the sound of her Doctor Turner seems to snap out of the trancelike state that gripped him. The muscles around his mouth relax and he loosens his grip. The policeman exhales in relief as the criminal chokes and splutters, definite signs that he will live to see another day.

"I didn't know she was a nun," he splutters, repeating that sentence over and over again as the officer arrests him.

Sister Bernadette doesn't remember sitting down, but all of a sudden she is on her knees, the doctor squatting next to her. He takes off his coat and helps her put it on. His hands shake as he does the first few buttons up so as to save her modesty. The fabric of his coat is warm, something Sister Bernadette is grateful for; the effect of her adrenaline is wearing off, allowing the cold of the night to knit itself in her bones.

"Sister, are you hurt?" he asks her, rolling up the cuffs of his coat. She shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak.

"I'm sorry, I have nothing for you to cover your head with," he says as he moves on to the other sleeve. Sister Bernadette touches her hair; she had already forgotten that it was on display.

"It doesn't matter," she mumbles.

"It does matter! What on earth made you do such a thing, you silly woman? What if one of them had a knife? What if they had…?" he says, his voice trembling.

"I heard your voice, and I couldn't think," she whispers, "I thought my habit would keep me safe." Doctor Turner takes out his handkerchief and uses it to wipe away a drop of blood underneath her earlobe. The strap of her wimple must have nicked her skin there. Sister Bernadette winces; she not only feels the cold, but the pain underneath her ribs has returned with a vengeance, too. It must be one hell of a bruise.

"I would never have forgiven myself if they hurt you," she says, tears blurring her foggy vision even more, "because I love you." She starts to weep in earnest then. Great, heaving sobs rack her body. Her fear and anger and shame come pouring out of her eyes. Doctor Turner hugs her close to him. She slings one arm around his neck, tangles the other in the fabric of his jumper. Her face is placed over the cavity that holds his heart; its steady rhythm and the soothing noises the doctor makes in the back of his throat help her to calm down a little. He rocks her and holds her till her breathing has calmed down enough for her to speak. Her limbs feel extremely heavy and she has trouble keeping her eyes open. If she could, she would go to sleep right there and then, in the arms of the man she loves. She knows she shouldn't, that she should get up and make a statement, help the policemen do their job, gather her soiled wimple and find her glasses, return to Nonnatus, but she has no desire to move. Besides, the policemen are still too busy getting the two men they caught to cooperate.

"You silly, silly woman," Doctor Turner whispers, peppering her hair and forehead with kisses. Sister Bernadette loosens her grip on him and tilts her head so she can look into his face. He places his hand on her cheek, gently wiping one of her tears away with his thumb.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles.

"I'm sorry, too," he confesses. She frowns.

"For what?"

"For what I'm about to do," the doctor says, and presses his lips to hers. Sister Bernadette becomes completely still for just one second before melting into him. His lips are warm and dry and ever so soft. He is careful with her, the fingertips of the hand on her face hardly touching her scalp. Before the kiss can deepen Doctor Turner pulls away.

"I'm sorry, that was inappropriate," he whispers, his voice husky.

Sister Bernadette can't answer. Instead, she studies his face. Even in the dark and without the aid of her glasses she can see that his left eye is nearly swollen shut and has taken on different hues of purple and red. She lifts her hand and gently brushes over the bruise. The doctor hisses in surprise and pain.

"You're going to look like quite the prize-fighter," she notes. He smiles, then winces.

"I can live with that, if you are my prize," he says. She can't be sure, but thinks he winks at her.

"Only don't assume I'm going to do this every day. My old heart won't survive." She laughs as he gathers her up in his arms once more.

"It's a good thing that this alley is so dark," she whispers in his ear.

"Why is that?"  
"Because nobody can see me kiss you."


	2. Chapter 2

Because we all want to know what Patrick is like when he gets a little bit drunk. Enjoy!

"Sister Bernadette?"

Sister Bernadette looked up from her half-eaten piece of toast to see Nurse Franklin. "Yes?"

"I've been called out. There's been a pub brawl in the Two Keys. Nothing too bad, but I'd hate to go alone…" Trixie's large blue eyes didn't quite meet those of Sister Bernadette.

 _Something has hurt her self-confidence_ , Sister Bernadette couldn't help but think. Ever since the Summer Fete, the young midwife had been overly cheerful in the presence of others, but Sister Bernadette had noticed that she was withdrawn and demure when she thought no one noticed her. She had also decided not to go out that next Friday, claiming that she had a headache. It was nothing for Trixie not to go dancing.

 _Then again, it was nothing for you to let Doctor Turner kiss your hand_ , Sister Bernadette thought. She felt herself blushing when she remembered the careful way he held her hand, how his calloused fingers stroked past her grazed palm, over her wrist…

"Of course. I'll fetch my bag," Sister Bernadette answered.

Nurse Franklin's face immediately lit up, her doll-like eyes sparkling like fresh water. "Simply marvellous!"

It turned out that there was very little that was 'simply marvellous' about the pub fight. Then again, brawls very rarely were. The Two Keys was large and rather dark, the room filled with cigarette smoke and the smell of beer and sweat.

"Nurses, coming through!" Nurse Franklin said as they pushed their way through the throngs of men.

The pub owner directed them to the back of his establishment. "They only dealt each other a couple of blows, nothing too bad, God bless," he explained, "and I didn't want ter call the bobbies, 'specially because the friends of one of them tried to break up the fight. They don't want trouble, and neither do I. I think one fella broke his nose, though."

"We'll see what we can do," Sister Bernadette said, clutching her bag a bit tighter as they approached the offenders. There were five of them, four sitting to one side, the other one all alone. One of the four, a large man with blond curls, held a handkerchief soiled with blood against his nose and kept glaring to the lonely figure on the other side. That man ignored him, cradling his hand. He sat with his back turned to them, hunched over a bottle.

"Here are the nurses," the pub owner said to the five, then to Trixie and Sister Bernadette: "Do you need anything?"

"Just a bowl of hot water and some towels, thank you," Sister Bernadette said.

"Now, gentlemen, what can we do for you?" Nurse Franklin asked.

The man with the handkerchief got up, staggered towards Sister Bernadette and took hold of her wimple. He smelled overwhelmingly of beer. "Now we can see what's underneath!" he slurred, and made as if to pull off her wimple.

Sister Bernadette tried to bat his hand away, but there was no need; the lonely figure had gotten up and almost flew at the man's throat.

"Touch her and I'll smash your teeth out!" he hissed.

Now that he no longer sat hunched, Sister Bernadette could see who he was. "Doctor Turner?!" she exclaimed.

Before the situation could escalate any further, Trixie took charge. She firmly planted herself between the doctor and the man with the curly hair. "If you insist on having another go at each other, you might want to schedule an appointment at a gym," she snapped, "but this is a pub and no place for a fight! Doctor Turner, I expected better of you. Now, I don't know who you are, but I doubt you want us to go to the nearest police officer and accuse you of starting a brawl, public drunkenness, and assailing a nun and nurse!"

The man seemed to deflate at her words and sat down again, muttering something about him 'not starting a fight' and 'only wanting to see who was right'. Doctor Turner gave the man a very dirty look before sitting down again and playing with his bottle.

"Sorry 'bout that, Sister," one of the other men said, "He's normally not like this."

Trixie rolled her eyes before turning to Sister Bernadette. "Are you alright?" she asked.

Sister Bernadette nodded.

"I think it is best if I tend to Mister Curlylocks over here whilst you take a look at Doctor," Trixie suggested.

"I agree."

"I'll leave you to it, then. Just shout if they give yer any trouble," The pub owner said as he placed some towels and two bowls with water on the table.

"Will do," Nurse Franklin said before turning her attention to the man she had named 'Mister Curlylocks'.

Sister Bernadette placed her bag on the table next to Doctor Turner and sat down gingerly. He took a swig of his bottle, still not looking at her. Sister Bernadette forced herself to study him. Apart from a quickly purpling bruise on his cheekbone he seemed not to have suffered any further damage, at least to his face. His eyes were bright with alcohol, though, and he kept cradling his right hand.

"I didn't know you frequented pubs," she said as she opened the clasp of her bag and took out her instruments.

"I don't." They both turned their heads to Mister Curleylocks, who had let out a very high-pitched squeal when Nurse Franklin set his nose.

"If you don't usually go to pubs, then why are you here?" She turned his face towards her so she could examine his cheek better. The bruise had a deep purple spot the size of a penny, with blue spreading around it in an uneven circle.

"Timothy is with a friend. The house was so lonely and cold…" He didn't finish his sentence, but hissed as she pressed her fingers against his zygomatic bone to test for fractures.

"I took you more for the 'drinking alone' type," Sister Bernadette admitted.

Doctor Turner smiled wryly. "I guess I'm more of an enigma than you thought, Sister."

"No, you can't take me dancing, you are drunk!" Trixie protested as her patient tried to wrap his arms around her. His friends drew him back, apologising once again for his behaviour. Mister Curlylocks' nose looked a bit like a potato.

"A nasty piece of work," Doctor Turner growled.

"Nothing that Nurse Franklin can't handle, I'm sure."

"Still, he's not exactly a prime example of the male of the human species." His words were faintly slurred. Sister Bernadette wondered just how much he had to drink. She had never seen the doctor intoxicated before.

"I'd say that his broken nose doesn't help." She dipped the tip of one of the towels in the water and gently wiped the bruise. Doctor Turner flinched and drew away. Sister Bernadette firmly grabbed his chin.

"Oh, shush. If you can't stand the pain you shouldn't get into fights," she scolded him softly. His hazel eyes sparkled.

"I did it to defend a lady's honour."

"And the lady was very grateful, no doubt, but you are not a medieval knight; you're a doctor, and you should have known better. Now, show me your hand." His hand was clearly hurt, his knuckles rimmed with red and swelling. She dipped another towel into the bowl with cold water, wrapping his hand in it. He sighed.

"No, don't drink, you've had more than enough, oh God!" Sister Bernadette turned her head in time to see Mister Curleylocks vomit all over Nurse Franklin. She stood paralyzed for a moment, then shuddered.

"Oh my," Sister Bernadette whispered.

"Right," Trixie said.

"Sorry, Nurse," the man said. It was hard to say in the dim light, but it looked as if his face had taken on a greenish hue.

"Well, I was done, anyway." She forced a smile on her face and turned towards his friends. "You can take him home now. Give him plenty of water to drink and some aspirin. He'll look like quite the prize-fighter tomorrow, though, and probably feel like the bad end of a tram smash, too."

"Thanks, Nurse," one of his mates said as they hoisted Mister Curleylocks up.

"Oh, I totally said you were the prettiest, love," one of them said and gave Trixie a wink and a huge grin that showed off his perfect teeth.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, and I doubt I want to know," Nurse Franklin said as she packed her bag. The man gave her another wink before dragging his hardly conscious friend away.

Doctor Turner mumbled something unintelligible as he saw them leave.

"What was that?" Sister Bernadette asked.

"Nothing." Doctor Turner tried to grab his bottle.

Sister Bernadette quickly snatched it up ."I think you've had enough for today, doctor," she said and stood up to place it out of his reach.

Trixie was trying to save her uniform.

"I'd say that you're working on a lost cause," Sister Bernadette said.

Trixie grimaced. "How absolutely appalling! And we still need to get the doctor home. He's absolutely in no state to drive, and I wouldn't trust him to find his way back," she said, vigorously rubbing the stained fabric of her uniform.

"Why don't you go back to Nonnatus and draw yourself a nice, hot bath?" She took hold of the younger nurse's hand and squeezed it. Trixie sighed.

"But the doctor…"

"Is perfectly safe in my hands. I can take care of him, honestly."

"I guess you've taken care of drunken men before, you being Scottish," Nurse Franklin laughed. She brought her hand to her mouth to cover the sound, then pulled a face as she caught a whiff of vomit.

"Ugh. I've a good mind to put a whole bucket of washing detergent into the tub and never get out. Are you sure you can manage?"

Sister Bernadette nodded.

"Thank you, Sister!" Trixie grabbed her bag, gave her a wink, and left.

"Come, time to leave," Sister Bernadette said and she helped the doctor to get up.

"Now, did you drive here?"

"Nah, I didn't trust myself to drive back. My house is only a couple of blocks away."

"Can you walk?"

"Of course!" Doctor Turner said. He took a few steps and wobbled dangerously.

Sister Bernadette had to hide a smile. She took her bag in one hand and used her other arm to support the doctor. "Let's get you home."

Later, Sister Bernadette could not be sure how long it took to get to Doctor Turner's home. She had to support the doctor and steer her bike along with her with her free hand, which was far from easy. They didn't speak as they walked.

"Here it is!" Doctor Turner slumped against his own front door as soon as Sister Bernadette let him go. She parked her bike and made sure her bag was attached properly before returning. Meanwhile, Doctor Turner had managed to find the spare key underneath the flowerpot (the keys in his pocket proved too big a challenge), though he had not yet succeeded in actually opening the door.

"Let me," she said, extending her hand, but the doctor shook his head.

"I can do this!" he grunted.

"It's no trouble."

"You've gone through too much with me already this night. It wouldn't be right to…oof!" he exclaimed as the door swung inwards and he fell, face-forward, inside.

Sister Bernadette walked in after him and helped him up. "Helping you would put my mind at rest, if nothing else. Honestly, I fear you can't even get up the stairs without breaking something," she said, helping the doctor up.

Indeed, the stairs were the hardest part.

"You're more than I deserve," Doctor Turner mumbled as they walked along the hallway towards his bedroom. Sister Bernadette realised that she had never seen the doctor's bedroom before, and couldn't prevent a faint blush from colouring her cheeks. The room was bigger than she thought, with prettily patterned wallpaper and dark-wooden furniture. Doctor Turner flopped down on the bed with a heavy sigh.

"Come, let's get you settled," Sister Bernadette said, helping him to sit upright again. She gently undid his shoelaces, feeling the blush creep down to her neck as Doctor Turner's gaze took in every inch of her. She could practically see the loving adoration radiate off of him.

"You seem to have a lot of practice with this," he commented as she slid one of his shoes off.

"My father would sometimes come home roaring drunk after my mother died," Sister Bernadette confessed.

"Oh."

"How's your hand?"

He grunted, extending his hand so she could grasp it in her own two. His knuckles were swollen and bluish bruises had crept along some of his digits. She guessed that, once the numbing effect of alcohol and adrenaline wore off, he would be in a lot of pain.

"Oh, you silly man," she whispered as she gently checked his fingers for fractures again.

"Do you know why I did it?"

She wanted to tell him that it didn't matter, that you'd always lost the fight once you threw a punch, but the look on his face made her nod instead. His gaze had become very intense and his brow had knitted together.

"Those men were discussing which nurse was the prettiest. The man that Nurse Franklin called 'Mister Curleylocks' said they couldn't decide until they knew what the nuns looked like underneath their habit. He said he would bet that you looked very nice without the habit and wimple." Doctor Turner smiled wryly, rubbing his eyes with his left hand. "I stood up and told him that he didn't have the right to talk about you or any of the nurses that way. He stood up, too, and told me he would say whatever he liked. I told him he was drunk, that he needed to go home. That's when he punched me. I punched him back, in the gut, and was about to walk away when he said: 'you know they all want some male attention. That young one especially, acting all prim and proper, is just aching for a good fuck.' So I broke his nose."

Sister Bernadette now understood why the man had tried to pull off her wimple, and why one of his friends told Trixie that he thought her the prettiest.

"So, you see, I did it to defend a lady's honour," Doctor Turner said, but this time he didn't smile. His face had become still, unreadable.

"You don't have to get into fights for me," Sister Bernadette whispered.

Doctor Turner took her face in his good hand and tilted it up so that she looked at him. "I would give you the world and more, if I could. I want to say I want to because I am selfless, but I'm not. Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to come home and find you in the kitchen, preparing dinner for me and Timothy. When my mind wanders at night, I dream of what it must feel like to wake up with you in my arms. And I hate myself for it, because you are not some prize to be won. Those thoughts make me feel just as dirty as the man I fought."

Sister Bernadette's vision had gone blurry with tears and her chest ached. She couldn't speak, so she did the only thing that could adequately express what she felt: she kissed his knuckles.

Kiss. _I_. Kiss. _Love_. Kiss. _You_. Kiss.

The doctor brushed one of her tears away with his thumb.

"I'll fetch you something to drink whilst you get your pyjamas on," she whispered and fled the room. She stumbled her way to the kitchen, leaned against the counter, and cried. Her heart ached for the man upstairs.

"Oh God," she sobbed. How had it ever come to this? How could the doctor ever have fallen so in love with her that he risked life and limb just when a drunken fool made lewd comments about her? And how had it ever come so far that she wished she could kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, just to take the loneliness and sadness away?

 _Get out of here_ , a small voice in the back of her mind told her, but she couldn't, not even if she had wanted to.

Sister Bernadette took an empty glass and filled it with water. She shivered; the room was cold and dark. She suddenly understood what Doctor Turner must have felt as he came home. Hadn't she felt the same loneliness at Nonnatus, too? And there, there were others. The doctor was alone, or trying to take care of his son whilst juggling a demanding profession that would always mean he failed in some capacity or another.

 _I dream of what it must feel like to wake up with you in my arms_. She remembered how he held her hand at the Summer Fete, looking at her digits as if he had never seen anything so fragile, so beautiful. She shivered again as she came to a decision. She took off her wimple and cap, pulled the necklace with the wooden cross over her head, undid the buttons that kept her scapular on, and left them on the counter. She pulled her hairpins out, letting her hair spill over her shoulders. Armed with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin she mounted the stairs.

Doctor Turner had managed to put on his pyjamas in her absence. They were of a soft cotton, patterned with stripes. He snored softly as Sister Bernadette entered the room.

"Doctor Turner, wake up. You have to drink something," she whispered, threading her hand through his hair. He groggily opened his eyes, then sat up straight as he saw her. He reached out for his hand to touch her, hesitated.

Sister Bernadette sat down next to him and helped him down the glass of water and the tablets, then made him drink another glass.

"This is a dream," he whispered. His fingertips skimmed her cheekbone, tucked a strand of wayward hair beneath her ear.

"Is it a good one?"

He pulled her close and kissed her by way of an answer. Sister Bernadette sighed as his lips pressed against hers. The kiss lasted too long and not long enough.

"I wished I would never wake up," Doctor Turner murmured as she stroked his face.

She smiled. "Go back to sleep."

He stroked the scar on her hand, sending shivers along her spine.

"But if I wake, you'll be gone, and I'll be alone again," he said, but his eyelids were already struggling to stay open.

Sister Bernadette pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep well, darling," she whispered.

Trixie looked positively radiant that morning. Sister Bernadette was pretty sure she herself looked a bit like a wreck, deathly pale with large circles underneath her eyes. She hadn't slept at all. Trixie took her apart as soon as she could.

"I have to thank you for coming with me yesterday, Sister," she said as she lit a cigarette.

Sister Bernadette smiled wanly. "Only doing my job."

"Still, you were a real brick." Trixie exhaled slowly. The smoke curled around her head before falling apart.

"You know, I had a nasty encounter with a man a few weeks ago. He forced himself on me," the nurse said, not quite meeting the nun's eyes.

"Oh, Trixie!" Sister Bernadette squeezed her hand.

"Oh, nothing that bad, I assure you. I could get away and I was quite alright, just a bit shaken. I confess I felt as if I was somehow to blame for it all," she said, taking a deep drag from her cigarette. "I felt I was responsible, but yesterday, when that man tried to pull off your wimple, I had no trouble standing up for you, because I knew you didn't ask for that kind of attention. Then I realised: neither had I, so why would I blame myself? It was not my fault, and I had to stop telling myself it was. I know I'm not a nun, and I did want to have a nice evening, but I never gave that man permission to touch me." Her doll-like eyes were wet with tears.

"I didn't know. Why didn't you tell anyone?"

Trixie smiled. "I felt so ashamed. I kept going over everything I'd done and said. It was only yesterday that I realised that it is alright. It is alright that I wanted that man to think I was pretty; it was alright that I want to be loved and kissed. And it is alright that I didn't want it to go any further." The young nurse crushed the cigarette underneath her shoe.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Sister Bernadette said.

"It's not your fault. I am glad you went with me. It made me realise it's also important that men respect me, because without respect, their caresses are worth nothing."

The words sent a jolt through Sister Bernadette.

 _I fought to defend a lady's honour._

 _But you are not an object, not some kind of prize to be won._

"Are you alright, sweetie? You're looking dreadfully pale, all of a sudden," Trixie said, her brows knitting.

"I have to check something," Sister Bernadette mumbled, "Excuse me." It was all she could do not to run to her bike. She pedalled to Doctor Turner's house faster than she had ever pedalled before. The wind tore at her wimple. Her blood thundered in her ears as she finally reached her destination. She couldn't even be bothered with parking the bike right. She nearly bowled over the flower pot when she tried to find the spare key and banged the door shut, but she found she simply couldn't care.

Her heart sang inside her as she made her way up the stairs, softly, shoes in one hand. Sister Bernadette held her breath as the bedroom door squeaked, but its occupant didn't wake. He was on his side, gently breathing, his hair mushed in a delightful way. The lines that mapped his worry on his face were smoothed away by his slumber.

Sister Bernadette sat down next to him and traced those lines with her fingertips. Doctor Turner knit his brows and made small noise before opening his eyes.

"Good morning," Sister Bernadette whispered as she pressed a kiss to his forehead. The doctor squinted, then bolted upright as he realised who she was.

"I thought I dreamed it all," he said, clasping her hands in his.

Sister Bernadette simply smiled.

"Oh God, I thought I dreamed it all and I would awake alone again." He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her scar.

"You didn't dream it."

"But at the Fete… What made you change your mind? Have you changed your mind?" His questions were frantic, clambering over each other in their haste to leave his mouth.

"Yesterday, I realised I have been alone for a very, very long time. I didn't know how alone I was till I came here, and saw that you were just as lonely. And I never, never want you to be alone again. You are a good man, Doctor Turner." Tears coursed down her cheeks.

"Don't cry, Sister, please don't cry," the doctor said. He took her face in his hand and wiped away her tears with his thumbs.

Sister Bernadette smiled. "My name is Shelagh," she whispered.

"Patrick."

"Now we know each other, and you never have to be alone again," she said as she pressed her scarred hand to his cheek. A tear clung to his sandy lashes before travelling down his face, dripping on her palm. It lay there, glistening, cradled by the ridge of her scar.

" _We_ will never be alone again," Patrick corrected her and gathered her in his arms.

"You do have to promise me one thing, though," Shelagh said.

"What is that?"

"That you're going to act every bit the doctor, and not the medieval knight."

He laughed at that and peppered her face with kisses. "I'll be whatever you want me to be, darling, as long as it means having you."


	3. Chapter 3

_Blame this on me seeing 'Beauty and the Beast' this weekend. Plus, I wanted something a little lighter and a bit cuter than the last time. Enjoy!_

"For you," Patrick says, taking a bow and offering Sister Bernadette a rose. She takes a second to understand what is going on, then blushes a very pretty shade of pink.

"What's this all about?" she asks, eyeing the rose with a bit of suspicion.

"I've been sent on a quest by an old queen to deliver a rose," Patrick helpfully explains. He conveniently forgets to mention that the 'old queen' is, in fact, Sister Monica-Joan. The nun nearly accosted him as he entered Nonnatus. Patrick simply wanted to clean his instruments, seeing as his autoclave has decided to go on strike once more, but felt he could hardly refuse the older nun's request.

"Ah, when you speak of the sun, so it shines!" she had told him, clinging to his coat.

"Sister," Patrick had greeted her.

She had taken his hand in hers, opened the curled fingers, and pressed a rose into his hand. "You have to give it to the first woman you encounter."

"Sister, I…"

'No excuses! It is of vital importance that this prime example of a rose is delivered, preferably to someone worthy of its beauty!"

Patrick had sighed, then smiled. "I'll make sure it's delivered." He had to admit that it was a very pretty rose indeed. The petals are of a deep red colour, like spilled wine, with fuzzy down making them as soft as a baby's skin. The scent of the roses the Sisters grow was almost cloying outside in the garden, but now that he only has a single rose, he finds that the flower smells rather pleasant; sweet and heady.

"Doctor?" Sister Bernadette asks.

"The old queen told me to give it to the first woman I met on my way," Patrick helpfully explains. Again, he conveniently forgets to mention that the first woman he encountered would technically be Sister Evangelina. Somehow, he didn't think she would appreciate the gesture.

"I'm not allowed to have personal possessions," she says.

"Say, the princess can't refute the handsome hero thus! You don't even know what I had to do to get this flower!" Patrick says, clutching his chest as if she has mortally wounded him.

"It involved a lot of bravery, I'm sure," Sister Bernadette says. She still doesn't take the rose in her hand, but the shadow of a smile ghosts around her mouth and her eyes sparkle.

"Maybe I had to travel into a deep, dark forest, and scale the walls of an enchanted castle. Maybe I had to fight the beast that lives there and only just escaped with my life and a single rose."

"Like in the fairy tale?"

Patrick nods. "Yes. If the monster had caught me, I would have been imprisoned for the rest of my life, mind. After all, I don't have a pretty daughter to take my place, just a prepubescent boy, and I don't think the monster would want to have him."

Sister Bernadette laughs at this. Patrick wishes he could make her laugh every day; the sound reminds him of the tinkling of water, of sparkly things.

"Seems a bit much for just one rose, really," he admits.

"My mother used to tell me a different version," she says as she takes the rose from him and presses it to her nose, inhaling its heady scent.

"She did?"

"Yes. It wasn't 'just a rose' as you put it, Doctor Turner, and the beast wasn't simply a beast. He used to be a handsome but spoiled prince, and was cursed when the fairy discovered that there was not an ounce of compassion in his heart. The rose was his blood, his heart, his soul. The only way the beast could break the spell was if he could freely give the rose to someone, and earn their love in return."

"It's not merely a flower, then," he admits, "How did the story end?"

"The beast imprisons a pretty young girl and slowly falls in love with her. He… oh!" she yelps as a thorn digs itself into her thumb, drawing blood. Patrick takes his handkerchief out of his pocket and uses it to wipe away the little bead of blood that wells from the digit. It's just as red as the fuzzy petals of the rose.

"My mother never told me fairy tales. She did tell me that a kiss can solve almost anything, though," he says as he ties the handkerchief around her thumb. He only realises the implications of his words when Sister Bernadette quickly pulls her hand away. Patrick's heart beats painfully against his ribs, almost as if it's pleading to be let out, to beat its steady rhythm against her injured hand. He wonders what would happen if he had held on to her hand and pressed it to his chest.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply…" he stammers.

"I'll fetch a vase for this rose. I'll place it in the chapel," Sister Bernadette says, avoiding his eyes. She turns around and walks a few steps, then suddenly whips around. She closes the space between them in a heartbeat, stands on tiptoes, and gives him a quick peck on the lips.

"In the fairy tale, the girl breaks the spell by kissing the beast," she whispers, looking at him from between her lashes and smiling softly.

Patrick resists the urge to crush her against him and give her a proper kiss, not one that ended before it began.

"Tell your old queen that your quest was successful," she says over her shoulder as she walks away.

"Will do!" He can't help that his face splits into a huge grin. Then, he frowns.

"Wait, did you just imply that I'm a beast?" he calls after her.

She just laughs, cradling his flower against her chest, over the cavity where her heart beats in time with his.


	4. Chapter 4

"Sister, can I speak to you for a moment?" Patrick asks Sister Bernadette. The nun seems to hesitate, then nods and follows him into his office. Patrick closes the door behind her, wishing she wouldn't look so uncomfortable; she folds her hands and bites her lip, puts her weight on her right leg, then the left.

Patrick sits down, thinking that she must feel a bit safer if he increases the distance between them, places the desk in their way. He lights a cigarette to give his hands something to do.

"Sister, have I offended you in some way?" he asks.

Her head snaps up, her blue eyes meet his for a second before flitting away. "Doctor?"

He inhales deeply, lets the smoke burn inside him before slowly exhaling. "I can't help but feel as if you are avoiding me." The past few weeks he has hardly seen Sister Bernadette. Every time there was a chance they could be alone she would think up an excuse and hastily make her exit.

"I don't know what you mean," she says.

Patrick knits his brow in annoyance and crushes the cigarette in his ashtray. "We used to talk at the end of the day. Medical stuff, mostly, but sometimes you would ask about Timothy. We haven't had a conversation like that in weeks. Hell, the last time we've worked together seems ages ago, and I have to confess that this situation baffles me. So I'm asking you: have I done something to offend you?" He can't tell her that those conversations were the best part of his day, that he longed for them like a starving man longs for bread and wine. He knows that his feelings for the little nun are sliding evermore into the territory of the inappropriate, but if this realisation occurs to him, he refuses to entertain it for even a second.

"No, you haven't," Sister Bernadette says. Her words come slowly, as if they'd much prefer to crawl back inside her mouth and hide in her lungs.

Patrick feels his irritation spike as she keeps turning her head towards the door.

"Can I be excused?" she murmurs.

Patrick can see that she is uncomfortable, and a part of him wants to stop the conversation here and let her go on her way. He is not a brute who enjoys seeing women squirm. He is a doctor, however, and the rational part of his mind– the same part that sends a shot of adrenaline through his body every time he correctly diagnoses and solves a difficult case–demands an explanation.

"No, you can't. You've not given me an answer. Something _has_ gone wrong between us, and I want to put it right, but I can't do it if I don't know what it is!" he exclaims. His energy ushers him to leave his chair and pace behind his desk.

Sister Bernadette takes a step back. "I don't know what you're talking about. Now excuse me, I have to go," she says and makes for the door.

Patrick closes the distance between them in three steps and grabs her wrist with more force than he intended, spinning her around. "Sister, I…"

Her palm hits his face with an audible slap. His cheek stings, but he is more shocked by the action in itself than the pain. Stunned, he lets go of her wrist and stares at her. For a second he can see horror and guilt war with anger in her eyes; anger wins.

"How dare you touch me?!" she hisses.

Patrick can't speak.

She gives him a shove, forcing him to take a step back. It seems as if a dam inside her breaks, spilling out anger, guilt, passion. She pushes him again.

"How dare you?" Her voice increases in volume as her hands find his chest. This time she doesn't shove him, but slaps him. Her hands are opened at first, splayed like starfish, but they soon turn into fists.

"How dare you touch me how dare you how dare you how dare you!" Sister Bernadette's fists rain down on his breast in rhythm with her words, matching the hammering of Patrick's heart.

 _Stop her,_ a voice inside his head tells him, but he can't move. He knows he should do something; two spots of colour burn on Sister Bernadette's cheeks and her eyes are filled with tears. The words that spill out of her mouth next snap him out of his paralysis, finally allowing him to take action.

"How dare you touch me, how dare you how dare you how dare you make me fall in love with you!" Her voice hitches.

Patrick grabs her upper arms to stop her from hitting him, but there's no need: she has stilled, her eyes opened so wide that he can see the white all around her irises. She has shocked herself into silence.

"What?" he says stupidly.

She blinks slowly.

Patrick loosens the grip on her arms till his fingertips are simply resting on the thick fabric of her habit. "What did you say?" he whispers.

Her eyes have become a peculiar shade of blue that Patrick doesn't recognize. Her hands grab his face and bring it closer to hers, her fingers hooked behind his ears. Her breath is warm and ghosts over his cheeks, sending a jolt of electricity along his spine. Suddenly her lips are on his. His body responds before he can consciously make a decision; his left arm snakes around her lower back whilst his right hand rests near her chin, his fingers along her jawline. He crushes her against him. She stands on tiptoe and curves her spine. They fit together like puzzle pieces.

Patrick would lie if he said that he never imagined this moment. In fact, he has dreamed about it often the past few weeks, guilt and pleasure intertwining and coiling low in his belly as he imagined what she would taste like. However, he never imagined their first kiss like this; hungry, demanding.

He turns her around, picks her up and places her on his desk. Her legs bracket his hips, her hands his face. It is only when his hand comes to rest on her hip that she suddenly jerks away and breaks the spell. They are both flustered, their clothes out of place and their bodies out of breath.

Patrick opens his mouth, searching for words, when Sister Bernadette starts to cry. Tears course down her cheeks and sobs rack her body. She takes off her glasses with one hand and presses the other to her mouth to muffle the sounds of anguish.

"Don't cry, please don't cry," Patrick whispers. He is unsure of what to do, what to feel. He wants to hold her and comfort her, but he is afraid that touching her might only upset her more. At the same time, he feels both elated and guilty. He wants to run laps and pump his fist in the air, shouting that he finally kissed the woman he loves with whole his heart; he also wants to climb into the autoclave and give himself a good scrubbing to get rid of the feeling that he is no better than a dirty beast, taking advantage of a nun.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she manages to squeeze out between sobs.

"Please don't say that."

"I didn't want to hit you. I'm not a violent person, really," she hiccups.

"I never thought you are. And I shouldn't have touched you without permission." She lets out a small laugh at this. He offers her his handkerchief. She takes it and tries to dry her eyes.

"I didn't know there was so much pent-up feeling inside me," she says, wringing his handkerchief in her hands.

"Sister, I don't want to upset you, but I do think you have to talk about these feelings," Patrick says. He digs his nails into his palms. He knows he is hardly the one to talk.

"I thought it would go away if I didn't speak of it. I allowed those feelings to sneak up on me, to catch me unawares, and now that I am caught I don't even know if I want to escape anymore." Her eyes find his. "I love you and I hate myself for it, because I can't make the feeling go away and I can't even hate you for making me feel this way!" she exclaims and starts crying again.

Patrick puts his arms around her. She puts her face against his chest, tangling her fingers in his jumper.

"Is that why you avoided me?" he asks.

She nods.

"Oh, my darling. I thought it was something I did, and I hated myself, too, because I love you and I missed you," he murmurs, pressing kisses on her wimple.

"You do?"

"I would give my life for you." Patrick rubs circles on her back until she has calmed down again.

"How will we go on? We can't back now, but we can't go on like this, either," Sister Bernadette says.

"But we have made a start. We are having a conversation. We are talking."

She smiles up at him. She has never seemed more angelic to him than in this moment; her cheeks streaked with tears, her eyes bright, a tear still clinging to her lashes, a red spot in her neck where he kissed her.

"Yes. We have made a start."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: thanks for the kind reviews! If there's a prompt you guys want me to write about, let me know. I'd be more than happy to oblige :)

Patrick only intended to clean his instruments at Nonnatus and then go home again, trying to get a few hours of sleep before the start of the new day. His new autoclave hadn't arrived yet, and the old one still refused service, hence making him dependent on the nuns. Sister Julienne had even given him a key so he could get in at any time of night; she knew he could not sleep easy without having cleaned his instruments first.

So, making sure his instruments were sterilized was the original plan. It got thwarted when Patrick heard a thread of music winding through the cold and deserted hallway.

 _It is three o'clock in the morning,_ he thought and went to investigate the melody's source. The light spilling from the nun's living room proved to be a vital clue. Patrick took care to walk softly; he didn't want to scare whoever was listening to Jim Reeves.

 _It's probably Sister Monica-Joan,_ he mused. The nun had taken to wandering in the night. Patrick had advised Sister Julienne to keep the door of her bedroom locked, but none of the nuns felt that it was right to lock Sister Monica-Joan inside her room at night. They did lock the outer doors, though, to prevent her from straying away from the convent. She had done so once before and it was an experience that no one involved would like to repeat. When Patrick reached the living room he abruptly halted in the doorway, arrested by what he saw.

A young woman dressed only in a white nightgown was dancing, slowly rocking along to the music as if in the arms of an invisible partner. She had hair the colour of honey; it spilled down the curve of her neck, the tips ghosting her shoulders. Patrick's brow knitted; he didn't know this person. What was she doing here, in a convent, dancing to music in the wee hours of morning? He wished she would turn around and see him; he was reluctant to make her aware of his presence for reasons that he could hardly fathom.

"May the good Lord bless and keep you," she sang.

A burst of electricity shot along Patrick's spine. He knew that voice.

"Sister Bernadette?" He had never seen her out of the habit and without her wimple, but he knew her sweet soprano voice, having heard her singing in chapel. She turned around. She didn't wear her glasses, which made her seem younger. Patrick guessed she had no need of glasses, now; her eyes were closed and her face wore the peaceful mask of deep slumber.

 _She's sleepwalking,_ Patrick realised. Tenderness and embarrassment pulsed through his veins. He felt like an intruder, knew he should avert his eyes and stop acting voyeuristic. At the same time he could not help looking at her. He doubted whether she knew the effect she had on him in daily life, the ever-growing love she inspired that he kept locked away deep inside his heart. Now, dressed in a nightgown that did nothing to hide her lovely legs and her creamy throat he felt positively dizzy. Patrick felt torn. This dancing was not appropriate for a nun, but the beatific smile that hid in the corners of her mouth made him feel guilty for even entertaining the thought of stopping her. Besides, he was sure she would be mortified if he woke her, being dressed in only her nightgown, not even wearing a cap to cover her hair.

"Sister Bernadette?" Patrick asked again, taking a few hesitant steps in her direction. Even though she was safely cradled in the arms of Morpheus she must have felt his presence, for she turned towards him and smiled.

"Would you like to dance, sir?" she whispered in her lovely Scottish lilt.

Before Patrick could make up his mind she stepped forward. Sister Bernadette took his hand in hers, put her other hand on his shoulder and leaned her head against his chest, over his heart. Patrick's arm snaked around her waist almost of its own accord. They rocked slowly, keeping time with the music.

"Fill your dreams with sweet tomorrows, never mind what might have been," she murmured. Patrick wanted nothing more than to kiss her, hold her, make this moment last forever, but he kept himself in check. He reminded himself that the person he held in his arms was a nun, thus a woman in name only. Never mind that she looked sweet and innocent and that her hand held his ever so softly.

The song ended, filling the room with soft crackles. Patrick stopped dancing. Sister Bernadette made a sound of disapproval in the back of her throat and knit her brows. The small line that appeared between her eyebrows made her look adorable.

"You have to go back to bed," he whispered.

"I want to stay here, with you, forever," she murmured.

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

"Why not? You're Doctor Turner, you make the impossible possible."

His cheeks turned very hot at her mentioning his name. "Sister Bernadette, do you know who I am?"

She nodded. "I wish you would stop calling me 'Sister Bernadette'. It makes me sound like a nun." She pressed herself closer to him, making a small sound of contentment as she inhaled the scent of his shaving soap and cigarettes.

He forced himself to recite every bone in the human foot in an attempt to distract himself from feeling the subtle swell of her breasts against his ribs.

"Now, let's dance."

"We can't. It would be inappropriate. You're a religious sister."

"Stop saying that."

"But you are a nun, Sister," Patrick gently corrected her.

"No, I'm not," she mumbled.

"Yes, you…"

She stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips against his. Patrick was too baffled to stop her. Only when her tongue flicked against the seam of his lips did he gently take her face in his hands and break the kiss.

 _Not so innocent now,_ he couldn't help but think.

"You talk too much. I just want you to take me dancing," she huffed.

"Let's dance, then," Patrick decided. She smiled serenely and kept smiling all the time it took Patrick to dance their way to her room.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: this was not supposed to be so long. Still, I hope you guys enjoy it. I'll be back with shorter, more light-hearted fics soon.

"Timothy Turner did what?!" Sister Julienne asked, her eyebrows knit so tightly together that they practically touched.

"He got into a fight, apparently. They asked for Doctor Turner to come and pick him up, but I told them that the doctor is out on a difficult case and that it may take a while," Sister Bernadette said. She took a deep breath and urged herself to look her fellow religious sister in the eye. "They insisted someone come and get him, so I promised them I would. I hope that's alright?"

Sister Julienne squeezed her hand. "Of course. Godspeed, Sister."

Sister Bernadette sighed in relief and made her way to the bike shed as fast as she could without making it look like she was running.

"Young Master Turner here hit George Thompson in the stomach. Master Thompson then gave him a smack against the head, ending the fight. Both refuse to tell me what is going on, so I have no other option but to send them home immediately, and give them three days of suspension," the headmistress explained to Sister Bernadette. She had curls in the exact same colour as her steel-rimmed spectacles and deep lines next to her mouth.

Sister Bernadette shot a sideway glance to Timothy; one of his eyes had swollen shut and radiated blue and purple. He refused to meet anyone's eye and looked both stubborn and on the verge of tears. Sister Bernadette's heart constricted at seeing him so. George Thompson, on the other hand, looked none the worse for wear.

"We had hoped that Doctor Turner could come and get his son himself," the mistress went on.

"Yes! We would like to have a good talk!" Mrs. Thompson said, putting her nose high up in the air. Sister Bernadette knew her; she was a patient at their Tuesday Clinics, now six months pregnant. She also had the reputation of being an insufferable busy-body with expectations that were impossible to meet. Just last Tuesday, she had made a comment that could hardly be called civil. Sister Bernadette had pointed out that Mrs. Thompson had missed two appointments in a row, even though Mrs. Thompson had sworn she would never do such a thing.

"Well, you can't always practice what ye preach, can ye?" she'd said, giving Sister Bernadette a very smug look. She wore the same haughty expression now.

Sister Bernadette stilled the wave of resentment that came over her.

"Doctor is out on a difficult case and it is not known when he'll be finished. I would have made sure of him coming, if it had been possible," she explained.

"And who are you to urge him what to do and what not to do, _Mrs. Turner_?" Mrs. Thompson sneered.

Sister Bernadette felt a blush creep along the vertebrae of her neck and settle in her cheeks. She itched to tell this woman that it was no wonder that her son got into trouble if she herself couldn't even respect a nun, but she was pretty sure that it would mean breaking her vow of obedience.

"Nevertheless, we would very much like to speak with young Master Turner's father," the headmistress concluded, letting her fingertips rest against each other.

"I will make sure he gets here first thing in the morning," Sister Bernadette said, ignoring Mrs. Thompson's huff.

"See that you do," Mrs. Thompson said and took her leave, trying to look superior and failing due to her very pregnant wobble.

Sister Bernadette was about to put an arm around Timothy and steer him out of the dreary office when the headmistress stopped her.

"Timothy lost consciousness for a little while. He insists he's fine, but it wouldn't do to leave him alone," she said.

Sister Bernadette nodded. "I understand."

She turned towards Timothy and gave him one of her biggest smiles. "Shall we go and get you something to eat?"

He just shrugged.

Sister Bernadette itched to know why Timothy had tried to fight a boy who looked roughly twice as big as himself; she also knew that Timothy could be a remarkably stubborn child, and would not tell her if he had set his mind to it. So, instead of talking about the fight, they talked about butterflies as they made their way to his father's surgery. Timothy had borrowed a book about the insects at the library and tried to show her pictures of different types as she tried to steer her bike into a straight line.

"What do you like about butterflies?" she asked.

"That they start out as something different. Nobody expects a fat little caterpillar to become such a pretty creature. It basically changes everything about itself, but did you know that every part of the butterfly is just a modified part of the caterpillar? They're made of the same ingredients," he explained, gesticulating wildly.

Sister Bernadette smiled. "How interesting," she said.

"They remind me a bit of you nuns, Sister," he said.

Sister Bernadette frowned. "Oh?"

"You are dressed in those thick habits almost as if you're cocooned in there, but inside you're still like the women you were before you became nuns, right?"

Sister Bernadette felt slightly nauseous. "I wouldn't know about that," she said slowly.

Timothy noticed the softness of her voice, the halting way she spoke the words, and seemed to deflate a little. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"And you didn't," Sister Bernadette reassured him, giving him one of her brighter smiles.

"Well, here we are!" she said a moment later and parked her bike in front of the surgery whilst Timothy opened the door. The surgery was deserted at this time. If it weren't for the warm rays of sunlight that pooled on the floor it would have looked cold and forlorn. Sister Bernadette put the kettle on and grabbed her bag.

"Now, Timothy, first let me have a look at that eye of yours," she said.

Timothy grimaced, then grimaced some more when the pull of muscles hurt his eye.

"I'm fine," he mumbled, but Sister Bernadette would have none of it. She firmly grasped his chin with one hand and palpated his orbital bone with her other. Other children would have squirmed; Timothy kept remarkably still.

"The headmistress said you were unconscious for a little while after George dealt you this blow," she said, fingers deftly checking his cheekbone for fractures.

"Only a little while."

"No nausea, no vomiting?"

"No."

"Well, that's something," she murmured.

"No concussion, you mean?"

She stared at him, surprised. "No, I think not. Let me get you some tea and aspirin." She found some biscuits in the kitchen, too. Timothy wolfed three of them down in quick succession and was busy on his fourth when Sister Bernadette took the plate away.

"Don't spoil your appetite. Your father wouldn't thank me if you ate nothing tonight," she said.

Timothy just shrugged. "If he even gets home in time. He's working all the time," he said, unable to keep resentment out of his voice.

"Well, he does have an important job."

"But am I not important, too?!" Tears welled up in his eyes. Timothy angrily tried to wipe them away. He winced when his knuckles brushed his bruised eye.

Sister Bernadette could feel her heart constrict inside her chest. She had promised herself she would try to keep her distance from the Turners, not touch them unless necessary, but denying this boy physical contact now just seemed cruel. She sat down next to him and put her arm around him, unsure what else to do. Timothy was a proud boy, acting all independent, but he was still a boy.

"Your father loves you, you know that, right?" she asked him.

He shrugged and sniffed.

Sister Bernadette gave him her handkerchief and waited; she knew that he would speak in his own time.

"He just makes me so angry, sometimes. He always puts his patients first, and I don't want to complain, but I need him, too," he admitted.

"Is that why you hit George? Because you were angry at your dad?"

"No, because George said something nasty about you and Dad and he wouldn't take it back. I said he was a dirty liar, but he just laughed, and it made me so angry that I simply had to hit him."

"Something nasty about me and your dad?" Sister Bernadette tried to keep her voice level, but her heart had started pounding like a little drummer and her fingertips had gone cold.

"He said that you and Dad are having an affair. He said his mother told him, and that she had seen you two." Suddenly, the strange comment Mrs. Thompson had made during the Tuesday Clinic made a lot more sense, as did her sneering mention of 'Mrs. Turner'.

"I think it is very noble of you to defend your father, Timothy, but…"

Timothy looked at her. "I didn't do it because of Dad. Well, I partly did it because of my dad, but mostly because of you. I don't want people to say nasty things about you. Dad often leaves me, but you never do."

Sister Bernadette busied herself with clearing away the plate and teacups so that Timothy would not see how her eyes had grown moist. "Well, even though I can't approve of you getting into fights, I think it is sweet of you to defend me."

Suddenly his arms were around her waist, his head pressed against her ribs. The hug was fierce and demanding like only the hugs of children in desperate need of one can be. Everything inside Sister Bernadette became completely still. She felt her senses heighten till every sensation was almost painful to her. She could smell Timothy's shampoo and the salve she had applied to his eye; she could still taste a fragment of his fourth biscuit that he had shared with her. The sunlight that slanted through the windows made his hair appear like bark shot through with amber and honey; she could hear his rapid breathing. Above all, she could feel his hands locked behind her back, the way he clung to her as if only she could save him.

"Please don't be angry with me and leave me," he whispered. An unruly tear managed to slip between her lashes and dripped on his hair, lay there like a pearl glistening in the sunlight. She raised a hand to stroke his hair and noticed that her fingers trembled.

"I could never leave you," she whispered.

Timothy relaxed his grip then and smiled sheepishly, avoiding her eyes. "You're the only adult that is interested in insects, too," he murmured.

Sister Bernadette had to repress the urge to hug him tight to her chest again and pepper his face with kisses.

"Do you normally go home after school if your father doesn't show up at the clinic?" she asked instead, only just managing to keep her voice from cracking.

"Yeah, I've got a key."

"Well, let's get you home, then. I'll make you some dinner," Sister Bernadette decided.

 _He said that you and Dad are having an affair._ These words had shaken Sister Bernadette to the very core of her being. The word _affair_ had a dirty taste; it suggested something best kept hidden, something that should be kept in the dark because it couldn't bear the light. It suggested sexual intercourse, too.

 _But we only kissed,_ she thought, desperately trying to keep the word from tainting what she felt for Doctor Turner and his son.

It was only a kiss.

It had happened a week ago. The other nurses had already gone home, leaving Sister Bernadette and Nurse Lee to tidy everything whilst the doctor worked in his office. Sister Bernadette had sent Jenny home, though; the girl had practically been sleeping on her feet, and Sister Bernadette was perfectly able to clean up everything herself. When she was done she had boiled the kettle, and decided to make a cup for Doctor Turner whilst she was at it, too.

She had entered without knocking, balancing two cups on matching saucers. She hadn't even entertained the idea that she might be intruding.

Seeing him with hanging shoulders, his head in his hands, had nearly broken her heart. He looked tired, small, defeated.

 _Vulnerable,_ was the word that shot through her head. The voice of self-preservation told her to get out, NOW. She could not trust herself around Doctor Turner and she knew it. However, the voice of compassion, always stronger, made her place the cup softly in front of him and kneel next to his chair. Here was a man in need of sympathy; who was she if she could not provide him with such a little thing?

"Doctor Turner?"

Her voice startled him. He removed his hands, a smile already pasted on his face. He couldn't hide that his eyes were red-rimmed, though.

"Are you alright?"

"All is tickety-boo, thank you. Is that a cup of tea for me?" His cheerfulness was so forced that Sister Bernadette had to actively tell herself not to cringe.

"You don't have to pretend," she whispered.

His face cracked. "It's just so much, sometimes," he murmured and rubbed his eyes.

Sister Bernadette kept quiet, knowing that he would talk in his own time.

"I miss Marianne. I try so hard to be a good father for Tim, but I know I fail at every turn. He resents me for leaving him alone so much, begs me to stay home more. The truth is that I just can't stand staying around the flat. Everything there reminds me of Marianne." He laughed. It sounded hollow.

"Here I am, using my dead wife as an excuse for being a bad father." Bitterness and sadness laced his words.

"When my mother died, my father would come home drunk almost every single night," Sister Bernadette said. The words came in a halting fashion; they had been kept inside her heart for a long time, and were reluctant to leave her chest. She swallowed, made herself go on.

"I was six. I would wait for him to come home so I could help him put off his shoes. I would make him drink one glass of water, sometimes two, and tuck him in. He mostly slept on the sofa in those days. He said he was too drunk to take the stairs, but I think he didn't want to sleep alone in a bed made for two. Some nights he would be sad. He would hug me to his chest and pepper me with kisses and cry tears into my hair. Other nights he was angry. He would squeeze my arms till they bloomed with bruises and tell me he wished God had taken me instead of my mother. He told me he could have had many more children like me, but there was only one woman good enough to be his wife."

"How long did it go on?"

"Three years. One night he was so angry that he broke my arm. I think my screaming sobered him up. He never touched a bottle again." He never touched her again, either; no pinching, no squeezing, but no kisses and cuddles, either.

"I'm sorry you had to live through that," Doctor Turner said. His hazel eyes tried to keep hers locked.

She blushed and avoided his gaze. She was afraid of the things he could read in her eyes; her heart was rubbed raw and sore, oozing things that should have been left unsaid. "I didn't mean to make this all about me. I just wanted to say that you're not doing so bad a job as you think. You love Timothy, and even if you aren't perfect, you keep him safe and fed and loved."

"Not so bad a job. Well, your father doesn't really set the bar high, the bastard. Still, I can't help but feel that I'm failing."

"Don't say that!" She placed her hand on his cheek, forcing him to look at her.

"Don't for a minute doubt that you aren't doing the best you can! You are a wonderful father and don't let anyone tell you otherwise!" Her cheeks flamed, her pulse thundered.

As Doctor Turner's eyes filled with tears she did the only thing she could think of, the only medicine she could give him to make him understand that he was at least respected and appreciated and loved by someone; she kissed him.

He stilled for just one moment, then acted by opening his mouth and pressing his tongue against the seam of her lips. His hands pulled her face closer as their kiss deepened, as their pulses galloped and their hearts pounded in perfect harmony.

Sister Bernadette stretched her spine to reach him. She was filled to the brim with desire and longing and became a creature of instinct, not thinking, only wanting and ready to give. She placed her hand on his shoulder and let the one on his face travel to his scalp, carding her fingers through his hair and marvelling at its silky texture.

Doctor Turner groaned and pulled her on his lap. He placed sloppy kisses along her jawline and gently bit her neck till she gasped. When his left hand found its way under her skirt and brushed the strip of skin between her stockings and her nickers she jolted against the desk. The motion sent one of the teacups spiralling to the ground.

The breaking of china made Sister Bernadette abruptly aware of the absolute scandalous position she was in. She shot from the doctor's lap, her face engulfed in the fire of shame. Her hands trembled.

Doctor Turner looked at her. He was out of breath. Shame and desire seemed to war in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he gasped.

"I have to go. The nuns expect me," she said as she took brisk steps towards the door.

"Please, wait!" he shouted after her, but she didn't. She sped towards her bike, blind to everyone she passed, and pedalled away. She used the palm of her hand to wipe away her tears.

 _Stupid girl, you absolute slattern,_ she scolded herself. _What if you had been seen? You were only supposed to comfort the doctor, not to whore yourself out to do it!_ Her breathing hitched and her lungs burned, but she forced herself to bike faster in an effort to leave her thoughts behind. She couldn't.

Sister Bernadette couldn't help but realise several things all at once.

She had been a desert, a drought, ever since her mother died. She had been deprived of touch since she was a little girl. The occasional squeeze of Sister Julienne's hand didn't count, nor did the physical contact with her patients; for all intends and purposes, the first type was an oddity, the second purely professional. She might as well touch warm marble and wood all day. Now that the doctor had touched her, held her, she knew what touch could do, _and she longed for it._

She loved the doctor and wanted nothing more than to show him just how much. She wanted to hold him, kiss the tears away, make him forget everything but her. If that teacup hadn't fallen, she could not be certain that she had stopped in time before breaking all of her vows.

She grabbed the wooden cross around her neck with such force that her knuckles turned white. Even though the wood dug into her flesh, she could still feel the scratchy fabric of his jumper and was haunted the ghostlike presence of his beating heart underneath.

 _It wasn't only a kiss._

Sister Bernadette felt torn about what to do. She knew that she should not go to Doctor Turner's home, especially now that one of the most notorious gossipers was spreading poison about them. She also didn't want to leave Timothy alone, especially now that he had told her that she, at least, was always there for him.

She had almost decided to call Nonnatus and ask one of the nurses to stay with Timothy till she saw his face. His eye had now completely swollen shut and angry flames of blue and purple radiated away from his lid, licking over his cheekbones and nose. He needed someone he could trust, and right now she was the one he felt most comfortable around. She could still feel his hug, how he had acted like a drowning boy and she his salvation.

So, Sister Bernadette decided to stay.

She made Timothy a plate of eggs and bacon, did the dishes, let him take a bath whilst she waited outside, calling every few minutes to ensure everything was alright, all the while praying and dreading the moment Doctor Turner would come home because it would mean that she had to leave. She who had been deprived of loving touch felt her heart break when the rational part of her mind forced her to remember that she was a nun.

Everything she had done today could have been rationalised away as mere sympathy, had it not been for her kiss with Doctor Turner earlier. That kiss- her mind refused to give it any other label- twisted everything, painted it with the colour of her desire. So, she promised herself that she would leave the minute he stepped through the front door. She would not give extra fuel to the hot fire of gossip.

 _It must be a very serious case,_ she mused as Doctor Turner had still not returned when it was Timothy's bedtime. Timothy had put on his pyjamas and came to her almost shyly to ask her to tuck him in. Books, toy planes, coloured pencils and marbles lay scattered around his room. Sister Bernadette had to wind her way towards Timothy's bed carefully. He lay on his side, a threadbare bear tucked under one arm. She kneeled next to him.

"Does your head hurt?"

"A little," he admitted.

"I guess it will teach you not to fight," she said. He stuck his tongue out, then grimaced as it hurt his eye.

Sister Bernadette smiled. "Sleep well."

"Can… can you stay with me till I'm asleep?" his voice was very soft and his eye very large.

"Mummy used to sit with me when I was ill," he explained.

She hesitated, then sat back down again, pulling a hand through his hair.

He sighed and closed his eyes. "I love you, Sister Bernadette," he murmured, already half asleep.

Sister Bernadette stilled and looked at the sleeping boy. She felt as if she could sit here forever, studying his face. Her chest ached.

"I love you, too," she whispered when she was sure that he was fast asleep. Then, she allowed herself to cry.

"Sister?"

Years of being woken at the strangest times made her open her eyes and be alert at once. She rubbed her eyes and adjusted her glasses. Her knees popped audibly as she stood up.

"What are you doing here?" Doctor Turner whispered.

She pressed her finger to her lips and left Timothy's room. The doctor followed. He looked dog-tired and confused, his hair standing up in strange places. She resisted the urge to comb it with her fingers.

"Didn't you find my note? The one I left at the surgery?" she asked.

He shook his head.

She trained her eyes on a spot just behind his head; she feared she would be lost if she looked into his eyes.

"Timothy's school called. He got into a fight and had to be picked up. The headmistress wants to speak to you."

"A fight?!" Doctor Turner exclaimed, then lowered his voice when he remembered that his son was sleeping in the next room. "With whom?" he whispered.

"George Thompson."

"Liz Thompson's son?" She nodded. The doctor dragged a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up even more.

"How is he?"

"He has a black eye, which isn't surprising after the clout he's taken. The headmistress said he was unconscious for a moment. I don't think he has a concussion, but I didn't want to leave him alone."

Doctor Turner nodded in approval. "You did well."

"I… I have to go now, before they send out a search party," she whispered and tried to walk past him.

"Wait!" His fingertips brushed her wrist. He might as well have clung to her; she couldn't move, was reduced to the simple sensation of his warmth on her skin. Separating herself from him was almost physical painful. "I have to leave you," she murmured.

"Please don't go," he begged.

"You don't understand! We've been seen; people are talking. Do you have any idea how much I might have compromised my reputation and that of Nonnatus simply by being here?" she hissed.

He stilled.

"What will people think when they see me leave your house at this time of night?"

"If you didn't want to cause a scandal, then why didn't you take him to Nonnatus?" the doctor retorted.

Sister Bernadette felt a jolt travel along her nerves; it had never occurred to her. "I can't stand here and talk. I should have left already," she murmured.

"Is this gossip why Timothy got into a fight?" Doctor Turner asked.

She nodded.

He bit his lip before locking his gaze with hers. "Marry me," he said.

Sister Bernadette thought for a moment that she had misheard, but the pleading look on the doctor's face left little room for doubt. "What?"

"Marry me. Leave the order, become my wife and Timothy's mother." His hands gripped hers; his thumb brushed over her palm, along the blue veins of her wrist."If you love me, then marry me. You would make me the happiest man in the world. But if you don't love me, I'll respect that, too. I should never have forced you to kiss me."

Her blood roared through her ears. "You… you didn't force me," she choked before pulling her hands out of his grip and turned away.

"Now, I have to go. I'm sorry." She could not prevent her voice from cracking and tears from pooling in her eyes as she fled down the stairs, into the night.

She had hoped that she could enter Nonnatus without waking anyone and roll straight into bed. No such luck; Sister Evangelina was waiting for her in the living room.

"There you are," the older nun said.

Sister Bernadette had trouble meeting her eyes. She feared that her eyes would be swollen and red-rimmed, betraying her even if she held her tongue. "It's the Great Silence. We're not supposed to talk," she whispered.

"There's a time for silence and a time for talking. Now, I'd say you've been practicing the first one a bit too much, hm?"

"Why do you say that?"

Sister Evangelina pulled Sister Bernadette next to her on the sofa. "Mrs. Thompson came here this afternoon, demanding that she'd be assigned a new midwife. She accused you and Doctor Turner in no uncertain terms of having an affair."

"And what did you do?" Sister Bernadette looked at her hands and dug her nails into her palms to chase away the lingering sensation of Doctor Turner's fingers.

"I told her in no uncertain terms that she'd better hold her tongue and that slander is a criminal offence. But I can't deny that she has made me curious; where would she get an idea like that?"

Sister Bernadette couldn't help it; a sob climbed along her throat and forced itself out between her teeth. She pressed her hands against her mouth.

"Dear Lord, please don't tell me that it's true," Sister Evangelina said, shock written large on her face.

"It was just a kiss." Sister Bernadette felt as if she was being strangled as she made the words come out.

"You silly, silly girl. What on earth were you thinking?"

Sister Bernadette had expected the nun to be angry with her, to scold her and call her all kinds of names. She had not expected her religious sister to be kind and baffled, comforting like she imagined a mother might comfort a confused child. In a normal situation Sister Evangelina's kindness would not be enough to make Sister Bernadette admit all, but this was no normal situation. Her heart, still healing from her confessions of childhood last week, had been rubbed raw this afternoon, first when Timothy hugged her, then when the doctor asked her to marry him. She could no longer cling to her secrets now that his love had washed over her; she knew it was time to empty her heart like one empties a china cup of tealeaves.

"He... He just looked so defeated and sad and I didn't know what to do. I wanted to comfort him, and before I knew what we were doing we were kissing. I didn't know that anyone was near," she sobbed.

Sister Evangelina drew small circles between her shoulder blades. "You wouldn't be so upset if it had been just a kiss," she gently pointed out.

Sister Bernadette took her glasses in one hand and used the other to wipe away her tears. "The truth is that I didn't want to stop. A part of me still wishes that we hadn't, and it makes me ashamed," she confessed. She couldn't put into words how she had longed for the loving touch of a fellow human being ever since her childhood.

"But you are a nun."

"Yes. But I can't help that I see his face every time I kneel down to pray. I… I think I love him, and it has made me question everything."

"Everyone has moments of doubt, Sister."

"I fear this isn't a mere moment of doubt," Sister Bernadette said.

Sister Evangelina was quiet for a moment. "There are more ways to serve Him upstairs than wearing a habit, but you have to be absolutely sure that that is what you want," she eventually said.

"I… I don't know. I'm so confused!"

Sister Evangelina hugged her tight. "You don't have to make a decision overnight. However, as long as you are undecided, you have to stay away from Doctor Turner. We can't add any fuel to the rumour-mill, and you are still a nun, even if you don't always feel like one. Now, go get some sleep."

"Thank you, Sister," Sister Bernadette said and made her way to her room. She had expected to fall asleep at once. Instead, she lay awake, staring at the cross on her wall till the rosy fingers of dawn stole into her room.

 _This is what it is like to be consumed by love,_ she remembered thinking before sleep finally overtook her.

The next two weeks she took infinite care to avoid Doctor Turner and hated every moment of it. Avoiding the gossip, the sniggering and the curious looks was a whole lot harder. Sister Bernadette tried not to let those people get to her; for every person who gave her funny looks there was another who would have none of it and treated her especially kind.

Doctor Turner seemed on the verge of talking to her multiple times, but every time he would deflate and turn away at the last moment, urging himself to respect her wishes.

She knew it pained him.

It pained her, too.

Every day she went to the chapel, got to her knees and prayed.

 _Show me the way,_ she pleaded, eyes fixed on the glass-stained windows. _Take these feelings away from me if you do not want me to act on them, because I don't think I can keep them hidden in my heart much longer. Or, if that is the path you want for me, show me a sign._ She would get up when the pain in her knees made it impossible to kneel down any longer, staggered to her bed and lay staring at the ceiling in the hope that sleep would take her.

It all came to an end one afternoon at the surgery. Sister Bernadette and Sister Evangelina were tidying things up, Doctor Turner ensconced in his office, safely out of reach, when Timothy Turner banged the doors open and ran inside. His eye had healed nicely, with only the faintest indication of bruising.

"Hello, Timothy," she said as he came running towards her.

He threw his book bag down and stood panting in front of her, his face contorted with anger and sadness. "You promised!" he said, his voice cracking.

"What?" Sister Bernadette didn't know what was stronger: her surprise, or her need to gently lead Timothy away and hug him to her.

"You promised you wouldn't leave me!" He sobbed and roughly wiped away a tear.

"Now, young Master Turner, what is all this ruckus about?" Sister Evangelina said. She used the voice she always used on small and scared children.

"Sister Bernadette promised she would never leave me, but I haven't seen her in weeks!" He couldn't help but point his finger accusingly at her chest. He might as well have pierced her heart.

He turned to her. "Is it because I got into a fight?" he asked.

"I…" she started, but was interrupted by Doctor Turner.

"Timothy, is that you?" he asked as he walked out of his office, then stopped and stood paralyzed as his eyes snapped from his son to Sister Evangelina and Sister Bernadette.

"Tim, what are you doing here? And why are you crying?"

"Because Sister Bernadette broke her promise," Timothy said.

"What promise?"

"That she'd never leave me."

"Timothy, I didn't leave you," Sister Bernadette started slowly.

"Then why haven't I seen you? You used to make time for me when I got to the surgery, but now you're never there. You're just like Dad," Timothy accused her. She could see Doctor Turner flinch at his son's harsh words.

"Well, maybe we haven't seen each other as much as we used to, but that's not because of you. It's just that your father and I had to work some things out," Sister Bernadette said.

Sister Evangelina cleared her throat and folded her hands. "Right," she said and looked at Sister Bernadette, "Do you want me to give you some time alone? I'll be just outside, mind."

Sister Bernadette simply nodded. The older nun took off in the direction of the surgery's doors, but stopped in front of Doctor Turner before going on her way. "Now, no funny business, you understand?" she said, nearly poking one of his eyes out with her index finger.

"Of course not," the doctor said. They waited in silence till Sister Evangelina had left them.

Sister Bernadette focussed on Timothy so that she did not have to look the doctor in the eye. Her heart was basically humming; it beat so fast. "Timothy, I'm sorry I've made you feel alone. I didn't mean to," she said.

Timothy sniffed and refused to meet her eyes.

Sister Bernadette felt her insides clench; had she been so selfish that she had completely overlooked this child's anguish? Then, another thought struck her: was this the sign she had been praying for? Could she ignore this desperate cry for help? Did she even want to?

 _No,_ she thought, _I don't want to pretend anymore, and I don't want to hide my feelings inside my heart till they make every heartbeat feel like agony._

She took one of Timothy's hands and clasped it firmly. "I will be there for you in the future, I promise."

"What did you mean, that you had things to work out with my dad?"

Sister Bernadette let her eyes travel to the doctor. He stood as still as a marble statue; only the slow rise and fall of his chest indicated that he was a living human being. She felt her palm throb and ached to press her digits over his heart.

"Your father and I have come to realise that we like each other an awful lot," she started.

"So it was true, what George said?"

"Timothy!" Doctor Turner warned.

"No, not exactly. We are not having an affair, but we did think a great deal about each other and what we were going to do about it. I think you know that I, as a nun, am already married."

He nodded.

"Well, that made things difficult. I thought I had to decide who I loved more, but I've come to realise now that it is not about choosing. I can love you and your father and God, all at the same time, but I can't do that as a nun."

Timothy frowned. "Can you quit being a nun, then?" he asked.

She smiled. "Yes."

"Is that usual?"

"No, I don't think so," she said.

"But people will talk," Doctor Turner said. His voice was measured and slow.

"Let them; I don't care. We know the truth, and that is all that matters."

"Does this mean that you will be my mother?" Timothy's face lit up like a hundred-watt bulb.

"If your father will have me," Sister Bernadette said, urging herself to be brave and look the doctor in the eye.

His face remained like stone for just one moment before splitting into the largest grin she had ever seen.

"If you'll have me," he said.

Timothy pumped his fist in the air and flew into Sister Bernadette's arms which such speed that he nearly bowled her over. Sister Bernadette hugged him tight to her chest, finally allowing herself to bask in the sensation of holding a human being that she loved.

"So, do you promise that you'll never leave?" Timothy asked her.

Sister Bernadette nodded. "As far as it is in my power."

"Tim, go and fetch my bag. I left it in my office," Doctor Turner said.

Timothy rolled his eyes. "You always forget things," he muttered as he took off towards his father's office.

Sister Bernadette and Doctor Turner stood facing each other, only a heartbeat away, yet unsure.

"I don't want you to give up who you are just to please Tim," Doctor Turner said. His eyes had become large and soft. Sister Bernadette knew that she could drown in eyes like that.

"But I don't have to give up who I am; I have changed, and the habit I wear no longer fits who I am inside," she whispered.

He stretched out his hand towards her, hesitated.

 _Be brave,_ Sister Bernadette told herself and firmly grasped his hand.

"Are you sure?" Doctor Turner asked.

"I have never been more certain in my life. For a long time, I have been lost. I didn't realise it, but I was. Then, I saw my longing mirrored in you, and I realised that I didn't want you to be alone ever again."

His fingertips brushed her knuckles, sending tongues of fire along her spine.

"I don't want you to feel lonely again, either," he whispered, his voice husky and his pupils dilated.

"Sister Bernadette…"

"That's not my name anymore," she gently rebuked him.

He smiled. "Then what do I call you?"

"Shelagh."

"Patrick." He cupped her face in his hands.

She placed her hand over his heart, marvelled at its steady rhythm.

"You will never have to be alone again, Shelagh. We have found each other." He brought his mouth to hers and gave her the tenderest of kisses, hardly touching her lips at all. Goosebumps raised themselves on her neck as his breath ghosted over her face.

"Dad, your bag isn't in your… Ugh!"

Shelagh and Patrick broke their kiss but kept their hands intertwined.

"I want you to be my mother, but I don't ever want to see that mushy stuff again," Timothy huffed.

Shelagh couldn't help it; she laughed.

Patrick hugged her tight to his chest and peppered her face with kisses. "I think we have plenty of mushy stuff to go through," he murmured in her hair.

"Just promise me you'll never let me go," she breathed.

"Never."

"And don't let Sister Evangelina see; I think this counts as funny business."

"I don't care," Patrick said, and hugged her to his chest.

She tangled her fingers in his jumper and inhaled the scent of Henleys.

For the first time since her mother died, she felt home.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: There is just something so great about writing characters that are feverish, intoxicated, under influence of medication, or sleepwalking; I guess it is because they release their inhibitions ;)

"You look so sweet," Doctor Turner slurs as he tries to get to his feet. Sister Bernadette blushes and pushes him back.

"You have to stay in bed till the medication wears off, doctor," she explains. He frowns; combined with his swollen cheek it makes him look strangely adorable.

"Medication?"

"You had surgery for your teeth," Sister Evangelina explains, rolling her eyes, "We're in hospital. Now, as soon as you can walk, we're going to take you home."

"We're not home?"

Sister Bernadette has to supress a smile; the poor doctor looks terribly confused as he looks around the hospital room. He fingers the white sheets, strokes the metal of the bed.

"These sheets are very nice. They're very soft," he mumbles. His swollen cheek makes it hard for him to pronounce his words right.

"God, give me strength," Sister Evangelina mutters.

Sister Bernadette knows that she'd rather not be here if it was up to her. As it is, they have little choice; someone has to get the doctor home, and Sister Evangelina is the only nun who can drive a car. She has taken Sister Bernadette with her to help her; driving whilst simultaneously minding the doctor is a recipe for disaster. However, they first have to wait for the doctor to be able to walk before they can get him home.

Sister Evangelina turns towards Sister Bernadette. "I'm going to get us a cup of tea. You just make sure he stays in bed."

Sister Bernadette nods.

"I feel strange," Doctor Turner says as soon as the nun has left the room.

"That's because of the medication. It's completely normal, though you're having a pretty strong reaction, I must say." She sits down on the side of the bed and adjusts the collar of his pyjamas.

The doctor gives her a huge smile and grabs hold of her hand, stroking her knuckles.

"I like your voice," he says.

Sister Bernadette feels her cheeks flame and pulls her hand away. "Try and sleep a bit," she advises him. She gets up and tries to make her way to her chair when she feels the arms of the doctor around her. She turns around, just in time to keep him from toppling. He's so much larger than she is, and really rather heavy. Sister Bernadette needs all her strength to keep herself from crumpling.

"Doctor Turner!"

He gives her a huge, goofy grin. His pupils are so dilated that she can only see the faintest ring of hazel. "Give us a hug," he says, crushing her against him.

Sister Bernadette can feel her heart pound as warmth crawls along every vertebrae. "Stop it!"

Doctor Turner just keeps grinning and brings his face to hers. The medication affects his movements as he tries to kiss her; he misses her lips, placing a sloppy kiss in the corner of her mouth instead. Her knees nearly give out when he places one hand on her buttocks and strokes them appreciatively. "You have a very nice butt. Must be because of all the cycling. It's very healthy."

"Doctor Turner, this is very inappropriate!" she hisses. She pushes the thought away that she actually feels rather safe in his arms. What if someone sees them? She tries to turn her head and look at the hallway, but nearly loses her balance and has to cling to the doctor to stop herself from falling.

"Can't a man hug his wife?" he whines.

"I am not your wife!"

"Yes you are! You're wearing a wedding ring." He sounds unreasonably proud of this deduction.

"I am married, but not to you. I'm a nun, remember? I am married to God," she tells him as she pushes him back on the bed.

Doctor Turner flops down and stares at her with huge eyes. "To God? That's some stiff competition," he notes.

Sister Bernadette doesn't comment, but helps him put his legs on the bed and his head on the pillow.

Sister Evangelina returns, carrying two steaming cups on saucers, just as Sister Bernadette has tucked the doctor in. Sister Bernadette prays that her face has returned to its normal colour.

"Sister Evangelina, did you know that Sister Bernadette is married? To God?" he says.

"All nuns are, doctor," Sister Evangelina rightfully points out as she gives her fellow religious sister one of the china cups.

"That's not fair. Why does God get to marry more than one woman? Seems rather greedy."

Sister Bernadette snorts, then chokes on her tea. Sister Evangelina has to place a firm slap between her shoulder blades.

"Don't blaspheme, thank you very much," she barks.

"Dear Lord, he's really got it bad. Do you think he'll remember this when the medication wears off?" Sister Bernadette whispers as Doctor Turner now stares at his hands as if he's never seen anything quite like it.

Sister Evangelina shrugs. "Who knows?"

Sister Bernadette offers up a tiny prayer, wishing that the doctor's kiss is a manifestation of his true feelings for her rather than a drug-fuelled bit of ridiculousness. When they help a still very much drugged Doctor Turner to his car she can't resist giving his butt a small squeeze. He turns his head towards her and smiles. Sister Bernadette blushes and looks away, but can't prevent a tiny smile from framing her mouth, too.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: for bloghey131313, who asked if I'd ever consider the prompt of Sister Bernadette & Patrick getting locked in a closet/some other space together. Hope it lives up to your expectations ;)

Also, I have no idea whether the parish hall has a basement, but we're just going to roll with it.

He hadn't meant to snap, especially not at her. It was just that he was tired and lonely and felt so very fallible. When Sister Bernadette had spilled her tea over his lab coat the words were out of his mouth before he knew it. "God, you're clumsy!" If Patrick had at least had the decency to use a gentle tone of voice he might have fooled her into believing he was joking. He hadn't, though. He'd practically growled, the words laced with displeasure and anger. He regretted them almost instantaneously, wishing he could take the exclamation back, could make every venomous word crawl back into his lungs and let himself choke on them.

She'd turned away from him without saying a word. There was no need: he could see how his thoughtless growl had hurt her in her refusal to meet his eyes and the fierce blush colouring her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, doctor. Please excuse me," she'd said and basically fled from him.

Patrick rubbed at the stain in his lab coat, then threw the towel away in exasperation and raked a hand through his hair. He looked at his face in the mirror, noting the lines that mapped his face, the frown that had become almost permanent.

"Patrick Turner, you are an absolute beast," he told his reflection. He felt utterly disgusted with himself. He would have been sorely disappointed for the way he had behaved himself if it had been any of the other nurses; with Sister Bernadette, he felt that he might as well crawl in a hole and die of sheer mortification. The past few months he had tried to keep the thoughts of her at bay, with mixed results. Her gentle face haunted his every waking moment. At night, in the twilight zone between sleeping and waking, he imagined what it would be like to hold her, press his nose in her hair, see her pupils blown wide with arousal. In the morning he would feel dirty and ashamed of his thoughts.

"You've got to make things right," he told himself sternly and stepped back into the parish hall. He saw Sister Bernadette almost immediately; she was putting away the last few screens.

"Sister?" Patrick asked and hurried towards her.

She saw him. An emotion that Patrick couldn't place danced over her features. She turned towards Nurse Franklin.

"I'll be off then, on my rounds, if you don't mind?" he heard her ask.

Nurse Franklin widened her eyes in surprise. "Of course."

Sister Bernadette gave her a weak smile and turned away.

Patrick cursed inwardly and urged himself to walk faster without actually breaking out into a run. He caught up with the little nun in the hallway. "Sister Bernadette, I need to talk to you!" he said.

She stopped and turned around. "I don't wish to talk," she said curtly. Her face had become a mask, utterly unreadable.

"I… I want to apologise. I'm sorry if my behaviour offended you."

A flash of anger lit up her face. "If your behaviour offended me?" she repeated, her voice rising with every word. "Do you mean to suggest that it wasn't a nasty way to talk to me? Do you really mean to imply that the fault lies with me?"

Patrick flinched at her hard words because they were right. He did the first thing he could think of; he grabbed her upper arm and dragged her into the nearest room, closing the door behind them to at least provide them with a bit of privacy. It took half a minute before his fingers found the light switch. A dreary little lightbulb that cast more shadows than light illuminated the room. They stood at the top of a pair of rickety stairs that descended into the strange world that was the parish hall basement.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suggest that it's somehow your fault, and I beg your forgiveness," Patrick tried again.

"First you patronize me, then you drag me, a _nun,_ into a room with you, and now you want to forgive me? I'm sorry, Doctor Turner, but my forgiveness only stretches so far," she hissed and tried to open the door.

It didn't budge.

She rattled the handle, pushed her weight against it, but the door remained closed. "For the love of God!" Sister Bernadette muttered.

"What's wrong?"

"The door won't open."

"Here, let me," Patrick suggested.

Sister Bernadette opened her mouth and seemed ready to give him a lashing, but found some inner well of patience and stepped aside whilst refraining from commenting.

Patrick inhaled deeply and charged at the door, intending to knock it open with his shoulder. The door did moan and tremble in its hinges, but it was Patrick himself who was knocked back. He grunted as a sharp pain tore through his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" Sister Bernadette was beside him in a heartbeat, helping him up.

"I think so. It's mainly my pride that's hurt."

"I guess I'm not the only one who's clumsy," she noted, unable to keep a hint of smugness out of her voice.

Patrick flinched. "I guess I deserved that."

"You did."

They were silent for a moment, staring at the door. Patrick massaged his shoulder.

"I think that only works if the door opens in the direction you're pushing. This door opens inwards, into the basement," Sister Bernadette pointed out.

"Well, maybe it did alert Nurse Franklin that we're here."

Sister Bernadette turned to look at him. All the colour seemed to drain out of her face. "We always use the back door when we're done. The janitor usually comes in to turn off the lights and lock the building, but he won't come in far enough to hear us."

"But surely Nurse Franklin knows that we're here!"

"I told her I'd be off on my district rounds, and you're normally already gone at this time after the clinic. I don't think she's here anymore," Sister Bernadette whispered.

Patrick tried to ignore the way his heart leapt at the idea that they could very well be here the entire night.

The little nun tried the door again, but it wouldn't even give a fraction of an inch.

"Won't they miss you at Nonnatus?"

"I'm supposed to be on my rounds, so it might take a while for they miss me. Even if they did, they'd probably never think of looking for me here." She bit her lower lip.

"My poor patients," she mumbled.

"Maybe there's something down here that can help us," Patrick suggested and descended the stairs.

Sister Bernadette hesitated, then followed.

The basement of the parish hall was large and looked like it hadn't been cleaned out since the war. Wooden shelves lined the walls whilst cardboard boxes filled every nook and cranny. Patrick opened one of the boxes and had to back away, coughing because of the large cloud of dust that suddenly filled the air. His eyes watered.

"This might take a while."

Sister Bernadette didn't respond, but started to open boxes methodically and quickly.

Patrick knew that she was still angry with him and probably blamed them for getting into this situation, too.

 _Rightfully so,_ he noted. He sighed and forced himself to work. The best he could do was to get them out of here as fast as possible.

After what seemed like hours they had made no progress whatsoever. It wasn't that there wasn't enough stuff in the basement; it was more that everything was completely useless to help them escape. There were musty blankets, tinned goods, a collection of wooden horses, screens in need of repair, foldable chairs, a table with a missing leg. Sister Bernadette had found a box filled with tinsel and another one with candles, as well as a huge piece of cardboard painted with trees.

"There's nothing here!" she grumbled, kicking a box in her frustration.

"I wouldn't call it nothing," he said.

She turned towards him with an angry frown, ready to scold him. The look of astonishment that ghosted over her face and the subsequent smile she tried to hide behind her hand were all worth it. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"Doesn't it suit me? I thought I looked rather fetching," Patrick said, twirling one of the braids of the horrible red wig he'd put on between his fingers.

"You look ridiculous."

"Ouch, that really hurt my feelings!" he said, clutching his chest in mock-defeat.

"There are wings and shepherd's staffs and donkey ears here, too," he pointed out as Sister Bernadette came over to look at the opened box at his feet.

"I think they're the costumes and props from the nativity play," she concluded, holding up an empty box wrapped as a present. She gasped softly and picked up a tiny yellowed night dress. "I made this," she told him.

Patrick took off his wig and looked at the baby's night dress. The stitching was intricate and absolutely perfect. He had no idea that they taught the nuns things like this in handicrafts.

"It's a shame a baby only got to wear this once," he said, stroking some of the cross-stitching with his thumb.

Sister Bernadette immediately folded the dress away and threw it back into its box.

Patrick couldn't help but feel that he had somehow hurt her again. He swallowed. "Shall we try and eat something? There are a lot of tinned goods and I found a box with bottles with orange juice from the clinic."

Sister Bernadette seemed to hesitate.

"We might be stuck here for the rest of the night. The least we can do is make ourselves slightly less uncomfortable."

"You're right," she sighed and managed a weak smile.

They cleared a space somewhere in the middle of the basement and spread the musty blankets on the cold stone. Sister Bernadette lit some candles whilst Patrick opened several tins and put them on an upturned crate they'd decided to use as a table. There were no spoons and nothing they could use as plates; they had to eat straight from the tins and drink straight from the bottles.

"Somehow this almost feels as a picnic," Patrick noted as he used his finger to gather the last bit of potato salad. It was almost romantic, really; here he was, having a candlelight dinner with the woman he loved. The only thing missing was music.

"I hope they don't worry too much about us," Sister Bernadette whispered. She had a pensive look on her face and kept playing with the pickled onion she was supposed to eat.

"I hope someone uses the parish hall tomorrow and comes to let us out before they decide we've been mauled to death by squirrels or something."

"My habit keeps me safe from people with evil intentions; my sisters will know that, at least. It doesn't rule out accidents, though. But what about you? What about Timothy?" Sister Bernadette asked. Her eyes were large with worry.

"Our housekeeper has left dinner ready; he'll only have to warm it up. He may be a bit worried when I don't get home, but he'll probably just think that I'm out on a case. He can put himself to bed. I just hope that he doesn't get panicky when he realises I've not been home all night, come morning."

"Timothy is a good boy," Sister Bernadette said.

"Yes, he is. I just wished he wouldn't have to grow up so fast. He thinks the world of you, you know," Patrick said. He couldn't be sure, the light being so soft, but he thought he saw her blush.

"That's sweet of him."

"I… I think highly of you, too. You're a great midwife and nurse, and I'm sorry I snapped at you."

She averted her eyes. Her face was hard to read; the candles threw long shadows that seemed to dance to their own peculiar music.

"It's just that, ever since Marianne died, I struggle. I try to cope, but I find myself failing at every turn. I don't want to be a burden, but there's so much to do and so little time. My lab coat missed a button for weeks; I kept meaning to sow it on, but I forgot. I guess someone eventually took pity on me, because it was sown back on one morning. It was sweet, but I don't want the nurses or you nuns to feel obligated to take care of me, to pity me. I guess I feared other people's opinions if they would see me in a tea-stained coat. It was petty," he tried to explain.

"Maybe the sewing on of the button wasn't an act of pity, but one of compassion, of love," Sister Bernadette said slowly.

 _Could she…?_ He pushed the thought away; wishful thinking would only make things more complicated.

Sister Bernadette shivered. The winter cold had crept in more and more as the evening progressed, turning the basement icy cold.

"Here." Patrick shrugged off his lab coat and offered it to her.

"Are you sure you can part with it? You don't look so much like a doctor without it," Sister Bernadette teased him.

He smirked. "Being a doctor isn't about a coat," Patrick decided.

Sister Bernadette took the thick coat from him and put it on. The coat, already large on Patrick, positively swamped her petite frame.

"Come, let us finish our dinner," she said, putting the pickled onion in her mouth.

"Sister Bernadette, you're going to freeze to death," Patrick pointed out. The evening had bled into night and the temperature had dropped even further. The logical thing to do was to bunk down and share a couple of blankets, but the little nun had refused. Now, she sat far away from him, huddled in blankets and shivering. She'd removed her glasses, the wooden cross around her neck, her scapular and her wimple, but had kept the rest of her habit and her cap on.

"I'm fine," she managed to say despite her teeth chattering.

Patrick propped himself up on his elbows. He wasn't particularly toasty himself. "No, you're not. Don't be such a stubborn Scottish lady."

"It's not allowed. I've made a vow of chastity."

Patrick laughed. "Now, I don't pretend to know more of churchly matters than you do, but I do know that suicide is generally frowned upon by the Anglican Church. And let me tell you that choosing to sit there instead of sharing warmth with me is definitely going to kill you slowly."

She stared at him, then rubbed her eyes. He could see that she was cold and tired and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, but still she hesitated.

"Sister Bernadette, this is purely professional," he said.

"Oh, very well then," she muttered and came over to him. She lay down haltingly, turning her back to his. He put a blanket over them and lay with his back to hers, trying not to sigh as their warmth mingled and forced the cold out.

"Goodnight, Sister," he whispered.

"Goodnight, doctor," she answered.

Patrick could feel her breathing. He tried to think of something else, anything else, but he was acutely aware of her presence. Oh, how he wanted her. In the dark he could almost make himself believe that she was not a nun, that she was lying next to him because she wanted to. Almost.

When Patrick woke he had a hard time realising what was going on. Then, in a heartbeat, everything came back to him. His fight with Sister Bernadette, how they had got locked into the basement, their sharing a makeshift bed to keep out the cold… Somehow, in his sleep, he must have rolled over, because he now lay with his arms around Sister Bernadette, pressing her tight to him. Her deep regular breathing told him she was still very much asleep. He fought the urge to go back to sleep and slowly disentangled his arms, flipping on his back.

Sister Bernadette groaned and turned over on her other side. She snuggled close to Patrick, placing her head on his chest and placing one hand just below his ribs. Patrick tried not to breathe. He knew he had to make her let go, that she would be horrified if she knew, but he couldn't move. He slowly placed his arm around her, stroking small circles on her back. She made a soft hum of approval in the back of her throat.

"I love you," he whispered as he fell asleep.

The next time he awoke it was because Sister Bernadette was crying. Her fingers had tangled in his jumper, her tears dripping soft spots of wetness in his shirt.

"Sister?" he whispered.

She whimpered.

 _She's dreaming,_ Patrick realised. He grabbed her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake.

"Sister Bernadette?" She shot up as if a bomb had just exploded near her, gasping. Her cap had lost its grip on her head, allowing her hair to spill down her neck. Patrick couldn't be sure what colour it was in the weak light of the remaining candles. He guessed he didn't care.

"Sister, are you alright?" he whispered.

She wiped her tears away with the palms of her hands and turned to look at him. "I'm… I'm sorry, doctor. I didn't mean to touch you, and I didn't mean to wake you," she stuttered.

"That's alright. Did you have a bad dream?"

"It's nothing, really. It's silly. You wouldn't want to hear about it," she decided.

Patrick sat up to and stroked her arm. His fingers went through the actions before his mind could put a stop to them; without her cap, still warm from their shared sleep, it was a lot harder to remember that this woman was a nun.

"I don't want to bother you with it."

"I have nightmares too, sometimes. About the war, mainly," Patrick confessed, then sat stunned into silence. He hadn't even told Marianne that. He guessed it was this strange litmus space, this proximity in the dark that allowed him to share this secret.

"You do? I'm sorry," she said, squeezing his hand. Her palm was a bit rough from the hard work she did, but he could feel how soft her wrist was with the tip of his fingers.

He swallowed. "It gets better in time," he admitted. "Now, tell me about your dream."

"You'd think me naïve and romantic and shallow. You wouldn't want to talk to me ever again," Sister Bernadette choked.

"I would never think you shallow or stupid. Just tell me," he ordered her, but his voice was gentle.

"I… I dreamed you told me you loved me, and it made me sad, because it knew it was a dream and I had to wake up." She shivered and put her arms around her knees, refusing to look at him.

Patrick was silent.

"See?" She let out a throaty laugh. "I told you you'd think me stupid. I really am clumsy and naïve."

Patrick hugged her to him with all his strength, peppering her hair and forehead with kisses. "I don't think you're clumsy. I think you are the prettiest, loveliest, smartest woman I have ever met. I'm not worthy to kiss the dirt you walked on."

A broken sob clawed its way out of her throat. "You mean that? You're not saying it to make me feel better?"

"I could say those words a thousand times, and they would never measure up to the intensity of my feelings. I love you." He stressed each syllable of that last sentence, taking her face into his hands and brushing her eyelids with the tips of his thumbs. He could see her smile, saw that her pupils were dilated.

"I love you, too," she whispered.

Her breath on his face made him tremble. To still his traitorous digits he cupped her neck with one hand and kissed her. Her lips were pliant and soft. She moaned, steadying herself against him by placing one hand over his heart and hooking her fingers of the other behind his ear. The kiss waxed and waned until they had to let go to get their breaths back.

"I love you," Patrick whispered, touching her lips with his fingers. She cried again, then, but this time her tears were a testimony of her happiness. Patrick aimed for her mouth, but placed his kiss in the corner of her mouth instead.

"Doctor, you're terribly clumsy," Sister Bernadette murmured.

He threaded a hand through her hair, marvelling at the silky texture. "I'm sorry, nurse," he whispered.

"I forgive you," she decided. He drowned anything else she might have said with more kisses and blessed the moment he had decided to snap at her.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: for MariaLujan, who asked me to write a fic based on the prompt 'Patrick and Sister B go in the car after attending a long delivery. The car breaks down and she is very angry'. Hope you like it! This might be the sexiest Patrick and Shelagh have ever almost got (at least in my fics) ;P. I feel that this one is the most original one I've done so far, or maybe the most unlike _CtM._ I'm both proud and unsure about it, really. I did take some of the dialogue from S02X08. I'm not completely familiar with the kettle system, but I think this is at least two kettles. Reviews are always appreciated!

 _To say that this day has not gone as planned must be the understatement of the century,_ Sister Bernadette thought as she stood behind the doctor's green MG, pushing against the car with all her might and trying not to slip in the mud or lose her grip on the metal slick with rain. Doctor Turner stood next to her, pushing so hard that the veins stood out on his arms.

"Hell's bells," he grunted.

Sister Bernadette inhaled deeply and gave another push. Suddenly, the car shot forward. Doctor Turner flew forward and nearly fell, but managed to regain his balance before he toppled. Sister Bernadette had no such luck; the tires sprayed up water, causing her hands to fly to her face on instinct whilst her body propelled forward. She managed to break her fall with her hands before landing face-first in the mud, but it did little to save her habit; her skirt was nearly black with filth and her scapular and wimple, normally a virginal white, were dotted with dirt.

"Goodness! Sister, are you alright?" Doctor Turner offered her his hand. She struggled to her feet without taking it, looking at her ruined clothes with disgust. She'd already been bone-weary and hungry. Now, she was soaked and cold and thus completely miserable, too.

Sister Bernadette pushed her glasses back on her nose and made herself breathe in deeply. "Excuse me, doctor," she said and walked away from the car. She tried to wipe her hands on her habit, seeing as they were streaked with mud, but the fabric was so dirty that it did little good. When she was a good distance away she stood still, put her arms stiffly along her body, curled her hands into fists, tilted her head towards the heavens and screamed. When she came back Doctor Turner did his best to ignore what had just happened, but she knew he gave her glances from the corner of his eye.

"Come, doctor, let's try to get some help. Your car is not going to start," she said.

Doctor Turner raked a hand through his hair. "It might be miles to the nearest town," he confessed.

"I know!" Sister Bernadette snapped. She sighed and took her glasses off to clean them. There was a nasty headache brewing behind her eyes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap," she said more softly.

"I know. And I'm sorry for getting us into this mess. Here," Doctor Turner said, offering her his coat.

Sister Bernadette hesitated for a moment, then took the garment. It swamped her completely. She was grateful for its warmth and tried not to think too much about the fact that it originated from the man next to her.

"We need to go and get help," she said, as if to reassure herself.

"I know. And I don't think one of us should go alone," Doctor Turner said.

"What about the car, though?"

"I think it will be fine. I've not seen another soul for hours. I don't think this is a much frequented road, to be honest. We can't get the car off the road, in any case."

"Let's walk," she said.

"Let's walk," the doctor agreed, and they set off.

 _Things have not gone as they should,_ Patrick reflected as they made their way down the winding country road.

It had all started when Patrick had been called by Sister Bernadette to come and assist her with a delivery. The baby was breech and it had taken several tries to turn it, causing a lot of discomfort and pain for the mother. When the baby had finally been born it had trouble breathing. Then, to make things even worse, the mother had haemorrhaged. Patrick wasn't a religious man, but he had done a quick prayer as the blood kept coming in great, pulsing squirts. He and Sister Bernadette had managed to stop the bleeding, but when the ambulance finally arrived the poor woman was hanging on to life by a silk thread. Her complexion was only a few shades darker than the white sheets the ambulance personnel covered her with when they took her away.

He had been glad when it was all over and he could go home. He could not deny that that was partly so because he found it ever harder to concentrate when he was in the presence of Sister Bernadette. Part of him had groaned inwardly when he saw the little nun standing forlorn next to her bike with a punctured tire. Another part, stronger and slyer, had made his heart leap inside his chest.

"Can I give you a ride back to Nonnatus, Sister?" Patrick had offered.

Sister Bernadette had seemed to hesitate, but she had nodded and climbed into the car next to him. She had put her head against the window and tried to sleep a bit. The soft flutter of her lashes, the starfish way her fingers would splay on the leather of the seat when he took a sharp turn, the way she bit her lip combined with the strain of staying up all night and the waning effect of adrenaline had made Patrick less than observant. It was only when he realised that it had taken them a lot longer than normal to get to the convent that he realised they weren't even in London anymore; somehow, he had driven them away from the city.

"Shit," he'd cursed under his breath and tried to find their way back. The road, owing to the early hour, had been deserted. As the night fled for a summer dawn Patrick had managed to get them even further from where they should be. He could pretend it was all under control, allowed the wipers to soothe him as the dark grey of the morning sky broke open and poured rain on them. However, when his car had started to slow down he could no longer ignore his worries. The motor had groaned and spluttered.

"Come on," he prayed, but his car had given one heaving shudder, then died.

Sister Bernadette came awake immediately.

"What's going on?" she murmured.

"My car just broke down," Doctor Turner said, rubbing his eyes.

Sister Bernadette looked out of the window. "This isn't the East End. This isn't even London, by the looks of it. Where are we?"

"I don't know," Patrick confessed.

She pursed her lips. "What do you mean?" Was that a bit of panic that laced her words?

"I must have been half asleep as I drove. I've been trying to get us back for the past hour, but if I'm honest, I've no idea where we are."

"And now the car has broken down."

"And now the car has broken down," Patrick agreed. He grabbed his bag from the back seat.

"Just stay inside, Sister, and I'll try to see what's wrong."

Sister Bernadette huffed and grabbed the umbrella that always lay stashed on the floor of the MG.

"And let you catch pneumonia? No, thanks," she mumbled, getting out with him.

Sister Bernadette tried to focus on something else than Doctor Turner. She was hyperaware of the breaths he took, of the swing of his arms as he walked. The path was so small that they were forced to walk close to each other. She could not be sure, but she thought she had felt his fingertips brush hers ever so slightly at one point. There were moments when she felt that he was slowly consuming her from the inside out. She burned for him.

 _Focus,_ she told herself sternly and pressed her icy hand against her neck. A shiver crawled along her spine. She offered up a small blessing that the weather had at least remained dry, safe for the one torrent of rain that had gushed over them as they'd still been safely ensconced in the car.

If she was honest all of this wasn't too bad, really. There was a soft breeze that chased the clouds heavy with rain away, allowing tantalizing glimpses of blue sky. The mud they were sloshing through was not ideal, but the rain had brought out the scent of all the plants and trees that lined the road. Drops of it lay on the leaves of the oaks and birches, glistening like jewels and pearls. The trees had grown ever more numerous as they made their way along the road till it felt as if they had snuck their way into a forest.

 _Or maybe the forest has snuck its way around us,_ Sister Bernadette thought. She could not find the thought disconcerting. The soft song of the birds mingling with the murmur of a river was like a balm for the soul.

"Do you hear that, too?" Doctor Turner said, suddenly stopping.

"Hm?" Sister Bernadette had to rub her eyes. She realised she had been half asleep and walking at the same time.

"Do you hear a river?"

"Yes. I think I've heard it for a while, now," Sister Bernadette said.

Doctor Turner started to walk faster.

Sister Bernadette sighed as she sped up. "No rest for the wicked, I suppose," she whispered, trying not to focus on the doctor's lithe shape as he walked in front of her. She looked at the limbs of the trees they passed instead. She nearly walked into the doctor as a result.

"What is it?" she asked.

"There's a little cottage here," Doctor Turner said.

Sister Bernadette followed the direction he pointed at and gasped. It was a little cottage, indeed. It was made of smooth stones, had a shingled roof and a door that must once have been a pastel green. Now, the paint was peeling and the door sagged in its hinges. A rosebush clawed its way along the walls. The scent of its flowers perfumed the air. The cabin looked quaint, strange, out of place.

"It's like something out of a fairy tale," Sister Bernadette remarked.

"Oh, and there's the river!" Doctor Turner pointed towards the ribbon of soft-flowing water that wound its way through the landscape.

"I feel like I could lay down in the grass under the rosebush and go to sleep and stay forever," Sister Bernadette whispered.

"Let's see if there's someone home before you crash down in front of their door," the doctor quipped.

Sister Bernadette smiled weakly and walked with him to the cottage. They knocked politely, even though the cabin didn't give the appearance of being inhabited or even occasionally in use.

"Hello?" Doctor Turner pushed the door open.

"I don't think anyone lives here," Sister Bernadette said as they carefully entered the cottage. There was a thick layer of dust interspersed with browning leaves on the floor. A wooden table with two rickety chairs stood in one corner, a sagging bed underneath a window without glass.

"Look, there are fishing rods here," Doctor Turner pointed out.

Sister Bernadette cautiously tried the bed. The blankets were musty, but the wooden frame held her weight. She stifled a yawn.

The doctor turned around and smiled.

"Do you want to rest here for a little while?"

"I really am rather tired. I feel I could sleep for days," she confessed.

"Then do. We can continue walking after we've regained a bit of our strength. I'll be outside," he said, taking the fishing rods with him and closing the door.

Sister Bernadette took off the doctor's coat and spread it on the musty blankets. The temperature had been climbing steadily since they'd set off, and it had become pleasantly warm. She took off her wimple and her necklace, hesitating a little before placing them on the table; they could hardly get any dirtier. Her shoes and stockings followed, as did her scapular. She hesitated again before removing her bra. She kept the bottom layer of her habit, her slip and her cap on.

 _The hard parts of my bra digging into my skin would hardly allow me to get a wink of sleep, and the doctor won't come in without knocking_ , she reasoned. She placed her glasses on the windowsill and curled up. She was asleep within two heartbeats.

Patrick managed to set the fishing rods up in the burbling river, then sat down and enjoyed the sun on his face. He felt strangely at peace; he guessed it was a long time since he'd sat down and basked in the rays of the summer sun without feeling rushed off his feet.

He just hoped that Timothy and the nuns and nurses wouldn't worry too much. As it was, however, they simply had to stay here; Sister Bernadette looked like she was ready to drop, poor woman.

Patrick didn't know how long he sat there, quietly musing and enjoying the murmur of the river and the fragrance of grass and roses. It was only when carded a hand through his hair that he noticed just how dirty his clothes were; they were streaked with mud, and one of his sleeves was dotted with rust-coloured blood.

"This won't do," he said to no one in particular. He kicked off his shoes and stripped till he wore nothing more than his pants and his shirt, then carefully made his way into the river. The water was surprisingly clear and very cold. The riverbed was full of sand, with the occasional stone.

"Wonderful," Patrick said, and meant it. He didn't know there was water this pure so close to the city. He waded into the river till the water reached his thighs before dunking his trousers in. He used his nails and the palm of his hand to scrub at the stains. Some of the mud let go easily, trailing ribbons of brown in the river. He wouldn't get all of the dirt out, but this was better than nothing. The sun was so warm that his clothes would be dry in no time.

Patrick was trying to get his jumper to look a bit more presentable when it happened. He took a step forward, and suddenly there was an almost vicious tug on his legs, sending him sprawling. He had time enough to let out a surprised yell before the water dragged his head under.

Sister Bernadette wasn't sure at first what it was that had woken her. She guessed it must have been the playful sunbeams that came in through the window, splaying on her skin like tiny hands. She groggily wiped the sleep from her eyes, sat up, and looked out of the window. She could look straight at the river and marvelled at the glistening water, the way it murmured and sang like a lullaby. The colours blurred pleasantly without her glasses. It was only when she saw something that looked suspiciously like a hand breaking through the surface for just a moment that she realised she no longer knew where the doctor was.

Her heart lurched, beating so hard that she winced.

"Doctor Turner?"

No answer.

 _He's in the river, oh God he's in the river,_ she thought. There was no room in her head for anything else. She sprang up and tried to drag her habit over her head. In her haste she tore the buttons. They rained on the floor and fled from her urgency. She managed to struggle free from the heavy fabric. She didn't use the door, but jumped straight through the open window, sprinted towards the river. The water was shockingly cold. Goosebumps pimpled her skin and she gasped, but she didn't slow down.

Sister Bernadette waited one agonizing second to locate where the doctor was. When she saw his head break through the water a few metres from her she didn't hesitate. She dove in, gritting her teeth against the cold. The bottom of the river must have fallen away suddenly, dragging the doctor down as he had been unprepared for the sudden difference in depth.

With a few measured strokes she reached the place where she had seen Doctor Turner. She could feel a sudden tug, knew there was an undercurrent. She didn't think, simply slashed through the waves till her hands met skin. Her hands locked around what she thought must be an arm and pulled. Their faces broke through the surface. Her lungs inhaled air in an almost greedy fashion. Doctor Turner flailed around wildly, spluttering and coughing.

"Don't move!" she told him as she turned them on their backs.

He became still.

She cupped her hands around his head to hold it above the water and started to swim back to the shore.

Soon she could feel the sandy ground of the riverbed underneath her feet. She stood up, helping the doctor to his feet. He was still coughing and panting. He leaned heavily on her, making her realise how big and heavy he was. She stumbled as the sand under her feet shifted. Her hair stuck to her neck and face; she must have lost her cap in the water.

"Are you alright?" she asked him, rubbing circles on his back. It was only now that she saw that he only wore his pants and a shirt. The light cotton lay plastered on his chest and arms. She could see the dark hair of his chest through the wet fabric, blushed, made herself focus on his face.

"Thank you," he gasped and stretched himself till he stood straight.

"What happened?"

"I was trying to get the dirt out of my clothes when the current pulled me under. I'd never imagined it to be so strong…" His voice trailed off.

Sister Bernadette followed the path of his eyes and felt her face grow hot. One of the straps of her slip had travelled down her shoulder, letting the wet, silky fabric travel down, too. One of her breasts was now exposed to the world.

She knew she should cover up, should run to the cottage and gather her clothes, should pray that saving a life would weigh heavier than her breaking her vow of chastity, but she couldn't move. She couldn't even find it in herself to be truly embarrassed.

The doctor tore his gaze away and looked at her face. He was blushing. She could see how his pupils had been blown wide by arousal, and how ashamed it made him feel.

"I'm sorry, Sister. I shouldn't have looked." His voice was husky. "I…"

She placed her fingertips against his lips to stop the words.

He swallowed. Something clicked in his throat.

Sister Bernadette placed her left hand on the bit of exposed skin of his chest, stroking the dark hairs there. She let her right hand, initially placed on the doctor's mouth, travel down, along his chin, his jaw, his throat. He shivered as her fingertips trailed along his arm, brushed his wrist. Her fingers curled around his and pulled his hand towards her breast, placing and holding it there. He brushed her nipple with his thumb. She inhaled sharply.

"Are you certain?" Doctor Turner asked, locking his gaze with her.

"I know you so little, but I couldn't be more certain," she breathed.

"I am completely certain, but I don't even know your name."

"Shelagh."

"Patrick," he whispered.

"I… I love you, Patrick," she murmured.

"Oh darling, I love you, too, more than I can say. And… I just want to pick you up, carry you inside, lay you down, and make love to you." His voice broke on the last word.

She smiled at him, felt her heart swell at the sudden vulnerability in his face. It was as if his mask of professionalism had cracked and the man behind the doctor now showed through clearer than he'd ever done before.

"Then make love to me," she whispered.

Their lips found each other in the space between two heartbeats. Shelagh put her hands in Patrick's hair, moaning as he softly bit her upper lip. She wrapped her legs around his middle. He wound one arm around her waist, supported her buttocks with the other as he carried her inside.

Patrick drew lazy patterns on Shelagh's shoulder as their breathing slowly returned to normal. She had put her head on his chest, listening to his slowing heartbeat, he guessed. He felt so full of happiness that he could burst.

"I love you," he whispered, pressing a kiss against her forehead.

She smiled.

He took his time to study her face; he never ever wanted to forget it, just as the way she had cried out his name during their lovemaking, or how her fingers had trembled as they undid the buttons of his shirt.

"I love you, too," she murmured, and drifted off to sleep.

They caught a fish with the rods Patrick had set out. He cleaned it with his pocketknife whilst Shelagh gathered wild strawberries and blackberries from the wild bushes that had choked all other plants in what must originally have been a vegetable garden.

Patrick sat with his arm around her as they roasted the fish above a small fire. She fed him fruit till her fingers were stained red. They had found only one cracked plate inside the cottage and no cutlery, so they ate their meal with their hands.

Afterwards, they sat in silence, looking at the sunbeams playing on the river as the sun set.

"It is strange," Shelagh began, "but I haven't thought about the other nuns and nurses since we got here, and now I suddenly remember them." She looked at their clothes. She had washed her habit and laid it out to dry next to his trousers and other garments. Patrick had almost forgotten them, but now the evening was becoming cooler he guessed it was natural that they started to think about their clothes again.

"The car is still parked on the road," Patrick mentioned.

Shelagh leaned her elbows on her knees and bit her lip.

Patrick put his arm around her. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head, wiped her eyes.

"Shelagh, darling, what's wrong?" Patrick took her hand in his and squeezed it.

She gave him a small smile, but her eyes were still wet. "I just realised that we'll have to get dressed and then we have to walk back to the MG and ask someone to fix the car and then we have to drive back to London and go to Poplar and resume our old lives, and I can't do that," she whispered.

"But we don't have to resume our old lives. Too much has changed."

"But I still have to get dressed. It will make me a nun again, and people will look at me and think nothing has changed. And you, you will look like Doctor Turner again, and no one will see any difference, even when I go and renounce my vows and become your wife. That is, if you want me?" Her eyes were very large and her mouth trembled. His heart, already dancing when she said _when I renounce my vows,_ not _if,_ lurched.

"You'd make me the happiest man that has ever lived," he promised her solemnly.

She smiled at that. "Well, even so, I'd be deceiving everyone, and that's what I can't stand."

"Oh, my sweet girl," Patrick smiled, brushing her tears away.

"I'm sorry, it's silly."

"It isn't, but I don't think there's much we can do."

"I know."

He gathered her in his arms and pressed kisses to her forehead. "Let me dress you," he suggested.

"What?"

"You dress me, and I dress you. Then we won't deceive each other, at least," Patrick suggested, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, that's just stupid."

"No, it isn't," Shelagh shook her head.

She stood up and gathered his clothes. She started with his socks. As her nails brushed his calves Patrick remembered how the heel of one of her feet had stroked him there during their lovemaking. It had made him shudder. His trousers came next. He could feel the warmth of her palms through the fabric as she guided the soft material over his skin, reminding him of how their legs had intertwined only a couple of hours ago. She tied his shoelaces with care, placing his foot in her lap. The concentration on her face was a direct opposite to the blissful smile she had worn as she had fallen asleep in his arms. Shelagh buttoned up his shirt next. Her hands shook, just as they had when she had unbuttoned the shirt.

"No jumper, I'm afraid the river has taken it," she whispered as she twisted his tie between her fingers. She was good at tying it, better than he was. She let her fingers rest on the spot where she had stroked him as they had been trying to regain their breaths in the river. He took her hand in his and pressed a kiss on every knuckle.

"Now you, darling," Patrick said, and set her down. He began with her stockings. He took his time, rolling them over her legs slowly, fiddling with the clasps of her garter belt. Shelagh remembered how he had put kisses on the inside of her thighs and shivered. Patrick picked up her habit next. She held up her arms so he could drag the garment over her arms, then down over her ribs till it pooled around her waist. He had to tug the navy fabric over her breasts, reminding her of the way he had cupped them in his hands and stroked them till her knees had felt like elastic. He put on her scapular, hiding the love-bite he had given her underneath stiff cotton. They both tried to replace her wimple, but without the cap it would not stay on properly. She put her hair up in a chignon.

"We'll have to cover your hair in some way," Patrick said, offering her his scarf.

She tied it around her head, effectively hiding her hair from view.

"Thank you," she whispered. She wouldn't meet his eyes.

Shelagh was hidden underneath navy fabric and thick stockings. The woman in front of him wasn't Sister Bernadette anymore, though; he could see Shelagh through the cracks. He wondered whether she could see that he was not, and would never be, Doctor Turner for her anymore.

"We should get back," she said.

Patrick nodded, took her hand in his. It was small, almost like a child's. Their fingers intertwined.

"We should," he said, and they started walking back along the path they had come. They did not look back at the little cottage, at the roses that seemed to wave goodbye, or at the river that murmured its farewells.

Darkness fell around them as they walked. They didn't speak. The only sound came of the crickets performing and the sand crunching underneath their feet. This changed when they came near the car.

"What is all this?" Patrick muttered.

Shelagh had to shield her eyes as a beam of light swept over them, then focussed on them. Her eyes watered as she tried to focus.

"Here they are!" a voice called out. They were surrounded by a couple of policemen carrying torches and asking a hundred questions all at once.

"Sister!" Sister Julienne stood beside her, seemingly materialising out of thin air. The blue eyes of the older nun were fraught with worry.

Sister Bernadette took over, forcing Shelagh back into hiding, into the space between her heart and lungs. Sister Julienne hugged Sister Bernadette tightly.

"Oh, Sister, we were so worried!" she sighed.

"What is going on?" Sister Bernadette asked.

"I think we could better ask you and Doctor Turner that question. We've been looking for you since this morning. You can imagine our worries when the police found the car. I had to come and confirm whether it was the doctor's," Sister Julienne explained.

"The car, it broke down," Doctor Turner said.

"But what on earth were you doing here, so far out into the country?"

"We got lost."

Sister Julienne touched the scarf on Sister Bernadette's hair.

"And what is this?"

"I lost my wimple," Sister Bernadette confessed.

"My, it seems as if you've had quite the adventure!"

Sister Bernadette found the doctor's gaze, and for a heartbeat Patrick looked out of his eyes, winking. She blushed. Tiredness descended upon her. Her limbs felt heavy and slow, her body something to be hidden away under thick fabric. She wanted to climb into a hot bath, then into a warm bed, and sleep for hours. She realised that this version of her would have found the scent of roses cloying, and the idea of placing the doctor's hand on her breast sinful.

"I think you could say so," she said slowly.

"You must tell me all about it on our way back. Where have you been?" Sister Julienne asked, guiding her fellow religious sister to the police car that stood waiting for them.

"We tried to get help, to find someone to fix the car. We rested at a cottage near the river," Sister Bernadette said.

"A cottage? That sounds like something out of a novel. But what river are you talking about, dear? There are no waters around here."

They sat down on the soft upholstery of the car.

"I wouldn't know," Sister Bernadette murmured.

"Poor dear, you must be exhausted," Sister Julienne sighed, drawing the little nun close to her. Sister Bernadette rested her head against the bony shoulder of her sister.

"Your day must have been so different from what you imagined," the older nun whispered as she squeezed Sister Bernadette's hand.

Sister Bernadette thought about the doctor's mouth on hers, how her eyelids had dropped half closed as his fingers stroked through her hair, of the sounds he made as they lay entwined.

"Not quite," she said. She blushed, but Shelagh peeked through her lashes and smiled.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: The final chapter, guys! I originally intended something short and silly, but seeing as this is the final chapter I feel I should end with a bang, so this is one of the longer fics. It is based on the prompt 'Sister B and Doctor T go on a train together', which I think was requested by MariaLujan, though I'm not completely sure. Enjoy!

Sister Bernadette liked stations. As a nun, she was familiar with the comfort that silence and rest could bring, but she felt that there was something soothing in being surrounded by a bustling crowd, too. Every now and then she would cycle to a station in London, most often All Saints, plop down on a bench and watch the people and trains passing by.

Sister Bernadette enjoyed her time at train stations the most when she felt doubtful and worn out. The last great journey she had made by train had been from Aberdeen to London, when she came to the great city to train as a nurse. She had been so full of energy and faith then. Just watching the trains would invoke that memory, and her zeal would light up like a star inside her, burning away every scrap of doubt and every fragment of tiredness.

Today, though, the puttering of the great engines did nothing for her. It just reminded her that she had been full of piety and hope for the future, a stark contrast to what she felt now. The constant coming and going of people could always cheer her up; Sister Bernadette adored seeing the bright-patterned dresses the women wore, their coats pops of colour against the dreary stone of the station. Now, it made her painfully aware of the unassuming colour of her habit, and just how lonesome she was; surrounded by people, but alone. Every unfamiliar face was a tiny stab, confronting her with the fact that there was only one face she really wanted to see.

Sister Bernadette removed her glasses, put them on her lap, and pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes.

 _Don't cry,_ she admonished herself. It would not do to be seen crying in such a public place. Normally, Sister Bernadette was good at keeping her emotions close to her heart. She had learned not to show her sorrow after her mother died; seeing her cry would undo her father. His heart had already been broken; Sister Bernadette had felt, even as a child, that she would have to be the strong one if they wanted to continue living. So, she knew what it was to keep a stiff upper lip. However, the past few months had made it more and more difficult to just keep calm and carry on, and there was only one person she could blame that on.

 _Doctor Turner,_ she thought, biting her lip. It was bad enough that she had to work with him every day, forced to pretend to be a professional. Now, he was consuming her every waking thought, too.

 _Not just waking thoughts,_ a brutally honest voice sneered. She felt her face grow hot. How often had she awoken in the middle of the night, her breathing rapid and her skin flushed because of unchaste dreams that featured the doctor in a starring role? The lingering sensation of his ghostlike fingers made her weep with shame.

"Sister Bernadette?" Her eyes flew open. She hastily put her glasses on. Before her stood Timothy Turner, clutching a ride kite to his chest.

"Timothy?" she cried out in surprise.

"Can I sit down?" he asked, gesturing to the seat beside her.

"Of course." Sister Bernadette scooped up her bag and placed it in her lap. Timothy carefully placed the kite between his legs.

"Are you going on an outing, too, Sister?" Timothy asked, looking at her bag.

"No. Well, yes, actually. It's my day off. I wanted to stroll around London and do some drawing," she explained. Her drawing pad and a box with coloured pencils were in her bag, as was a tin containing a Victoria sponge. Sister Evangelina had given it to her, remarking that it was best to get it out of the way before Sister Monica-Joan found it and let it upset her digestion.

"I like drawing. What are you going to draw?"

Sister Bernadette shrugged. She hadn't given it much thought, really; just being able not to draw anatomically correct drawings of babies in different positions would be a relief. "I haven't decided yet," she told him.

"Ah. I didn't know nuns got days off, too." Timothy looked rather pensive at this new titbit of information, then smiled. "I suppose you can't go to the pictures, or go out and buy a new dress or a lipstick or something, like the other nurses do, seeing as you have no money and all."

"No." They were quiet for a moment. Timothy let his leg dangle, sitting hunched over his kite.

Sister Bernadette resisted the urge to push his floppy bangs out of his face. "That's a handsome kite," she remarked instead.

"Dad and I made it. We're going to test it today," he said, a hundred-watt smile lighting up his face.

"Where?"

"Outside of London there's a place where we used to go every year to picnic when Mummy was still alive."

"Oh. But your father has a car, so why are you at a train station?" Sister Bernadette couldn't help but ask.

"The car broke. Fred is over at our house, trying to fix it. Dad didn't want to go out anymore, but I asked and asked and asked till he said we would go, after all. He's buying tickets right now," Timothy explained. His eyes sparkled as they met hers. "Sister, why don't you come with us?"

Sister Bernadette blinked in surprise. "Me?"

"Yes. It will be fun. Picnics are always more fun when you're with three rather than two."

"But, Timothy, maybe your father has looked forward to spend a day with just the two of you. I really don't think…"

"He'll like it if you come, too. He's said that he likes you best of all the people at Nonnatus at least a dozen times. I'll go and ask him. Watch my kite!" Timothy said and he was off like a rocket.

"Wait!" Sister Bernadette shouted after him. She stood up and tried to grab her bag and the giant kite, but when she had finally clutched the kite under her arm and had taken care of the trailing ribbons she could no longer find the lanky boy in the crowds.

 _He likes you best of all the people at Nonnatus._ Her traitorous heart beat an upbeat rhythm at these words, even if she told the organ to hush.

"Dad!"

Patrick turned around to see Timothy wind his way between the queues waiting to buy a ticket.

"Just a moment," he told the man behind the counter.

"Dad, Dad!"

"Timothy, don't shout! And where is your kite?" Patrick warned his son as the boy stood beside him, panting.

"I left it with Sister Bernadette. Dad, could she come along?"

Patrick frowned. "Sister Bernadette?"

"Yes, she's here. She has a day off. Could we take her with us?"

"A day off? Are you sure?"

The woman behind him in the queue cleared her throat and tapped her shoes impatiently.

"Yes. Can we bring her along?"

"Did you ask her?"

"She wants to, I'm sure!" Timothy gesticulated wildly.

Patrick sighed. He had to decide, now. He could not leave the queue and ask Sister Bernadette what she wanted, because they would miss their train before they had a third ticket. On the other hand: if he bought a third ticket, she might feel pressured into coming, and he didn't want that, either. Patrick could not deny that he wanted to be near her, but he knew it was probably for the best to keep his distance. Just a week ago, he had nearly drowned in her eyes as they had discussed spirit lamps. The desire to kiss her had been almost overwhelming.

"Dad, she looked very sad when she didn't know I was there. I think she needs cheering up," Timothy whispered.

Those words, in combination with the exasperated sighs and grumbles from the people behind him, decided Patrick.

"Three tickets it is, then," he said.

Timothy noticed that there was _something_ between his dad and Sister Bernadette as they found her still sitting on the bench and told her they had bought a train ticket for her, too. He couldn't put into words what this something might be, but there was definitely something out of the ordinary going on. Sister Bernadette, always so cheerful and open, seemed to avoid making eye contact with his father, and her voice was very soft, too. There was this air of sadness around her; Timothy may not understand what was going on, but he knew sadness when he saw it.

"You didn't have to. I understand if you just want to spend some time with Timothy."

"I really don't mind. I'd be glad if you came along, actually," his dad said. His voice was gentler than Timothy was accustomed to, and he was constantly clenching and unclenching his hands, as if he wanted to reach out and do something but had to remind himself not to. The pair of them seemed to have forgotten that he was standing right next to them.

Timothy got a funny feeling in his tummy.

"We're going to miss our train," he pointed out.

Sister Bernadette looked at him and smiled, taking his kite in her hands. "Let's go, then."

"So you'll come?" his dad asked, taking the kite from her and passing it to Timothy.

"Well, you've already paid for my ticket. It would be plain silly not to come."

Patrick had to constantly remind himself not to stare at the little nun sitting opposite of him. He tried to focus on Timothy. His son was basically bouncing in his seat, his nose pressed to the window as the brick houses of London slowly made way for fields and trees. He pointed to everything he saw and absorbed Sister Bernadette's attention completely. Patrick had to smile at seeing her laugh with his son and pointing out things he hadn't yet seen; how different this trip already was from the last one.

It had only been a few months after Marianne had died. Patrick went through life as if through a great mist; his senses were dulled, and caring about anything was hard. Summer had rolled around, and Timothy had started needling him about going out on a picnic, like they had done every summer. Patrick had recoiled at the idea. He didn't feel ready to visit places where they had been a happy family of three; it would only rub his heart raw, reminding him that the love of his life was buried in the earth and his heart next to it. Timothy had begged and pleaded and cried until Patrick finally relented, deciding that the boy might need the continuity.

The day had not gone as planned. Patrick had made a kite in moments stolen between patients.

"Mummy always decorated the kite with ribbons and things," Timothy had said sullenly, regarding the kite with disappointment.

"It's a kite, Tim. It doesn't matter what it looks like," Patrick had said, feeling too tired to snap.

Bruised clouds pregnant with rain hung overhead as they made their way outside of London, a basket packed with only sandwiches on the back seat. Patrick had parked the car outside of their usual spot inside the little town; he simply could not deal with seeing the tiny store where Marianne had bought their teapot, or the window where a seamstress displayed her dresses. Marianne's favourite dress came from that shop; it was a white one with a scooped neckline. You had to tie in the back, and red cherries patterned the soft cotton.

"This is not how we usually go," Timothy had whined. Patrick had ignored him, walking at an almost brutal pace. Timothy had trouble keeping up and kept shivering in the shorts he'd insisted on because he always wore shorts when Mummy organised their picnic.

Patrick had felt a surge of hope as they unrolled the string of the kite. Surely everything would start feeling a bit more normal as he and his son flew it? It had, right until the string snapped and the kite had come plummeting down. Patrick had forgotten to bring more string, cutting their entertainment short. Timothy had looked small and sad, huddling on the picnic blanket ("Mummy always brought the one with the red checks"). As Patrick had handed him a sandwich with jelly he had frowned.

"Mummy always made sandwiches with cheese and ham and lettuce and tomato."

"Yes, but Mummy isn't here, Tim!" Patrick had snapped.

Timothy had jumped up and thrown the sandwich away. "This is stupid! Mummy would have brought extra string and the right picnic blanket and fruit and cold chicken, because she knew how to cook and you don't. I hate your sandwiches and I hate this blanket and I hate this kite!" Large tears coursed down his cheeks as he shouted. He had grabbed the kite and torn it.

Patrick hated violence and had never used it on his child. In that moment, though, as Timothy ruined the kite he had worked on with such care, he came close. Timothy must have seen the rage in his father's face. He had recoiled, shame writ large in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he had whispered, staring at the broken toy in his trembling hands. In that moment Patrick had been reminded just how young his son was. Timothy was a good boy. He could be snarky and sullen at times, but what child wouldn't at losing his mother at so young an age? Patrick had rubbed his eyes, then drawn the boy close to him. Timothy had hugged him tight, shaking with grief.

"It's alright, son. I miss Mummy, too. Come, let's just go home."

That day had been a disaster; today, though, things would be different. He had only to look at Sister Bernadette's liquid eyes to know it.

Sister Bernadette had to remind herself not to stare at Doctor Turner as they made their way through a little town outside of London. The sun had climbed high into the sky and the temperature was almost tropical. Doctor Turner had rolled up his sleeves, revealing his forearms. Sister Bernadette was not a connoisseur of the male form; she had decided to become a nun when she was barely a teenager, so every minute she hadn't spent working in her father's store had been consumed by religious study. She had not felt the need to go out with boys. Frankly, the stories of her classmates about snogging and touching had scared her. It had nothing to do with her, was not meant for her. Men were creatures she only wanted to deal with on a professional level. If she had found them attractive, they had been so in an abstract fashion. Walking beside Doctor Turner, however, she had to confess that her image of male beauty was rapidly becoming less abstract. She told herself that she was feeling hot and flustered because of her thick stockings and the warm weather, but deep inside she knew that that wasn't the whole truth.

"Look, Sister, here it is!"

She tore her attention away from the doctor to focus on what Timothy wanted to show her. She gasped. In front of her hills covered in wildflowers stretched and stretched as far as the eye could reach, only occasionally broken by a lonely tree. A soft breeze made the flowers bob their heads gently, almost as if they were little people welcoming the doctor, his son, and the nun in their midst. Timothy took the picnic blanket from the basket his father was carrying and raced away to find a suitable spot to put it.

"So, you are happy you decided to come along?" Doctor Turner asked. His eyes were twinkling.

Sister Bernadette couldn't help but smile widely. "Oh, doctor, it is beautiful! No wonder you come here every year!"

"Marianne loved the flowers," Doctor Turner said, and flinched.

 _You are an intruder,_ a mean voice whispered in Sister Bernadette's ear. _You're only here because he misses his wife and he can't face being here alone. He would have asked anyone to come with him. It's just a coincidence that you are here. Don't forget it. Never forget it._

"I understand. They are so… flowery," Sister Bernadette decided, then cringed when she realised just how nonsensical that statement was.

"I guess they are," Doctor Turner said, and smiled.

Timothy had put the blanket underneath one of the lonely trees and was fiddling with the string of his kite when Sister Bernadette and Doctor Turner reached him. They placed the basket with their food in the shade. Sister Bernadette took the cake tin, her sketchpad and her pencils out of her bag.

"Let me help you to get it in the air," Doctor Turner offered his son as Timothy finally managed to untie the string.

"Sister Bernadette, do you want to have a go first?" Timothy asked politely and held his kite out to her.

"Oh no, that's fine, dear," she said. Timothy smiled gratefully.

As he and Doctor Turner took turns running down the hill trying to get the kite up in the sky Sister Bernadette sat on the checkered picnic blanket and was content. She drew some quick sketches of the daisies and poppies and other flowers, inhaling their heady scent, then decided to try something a bit more demanding and started a sketch of Timothy and Doctor Turner. They stood with their backs to her, hands to their faces to shield their eyes from the sun as they looked at the wavering form of the red kite in the air.

Her heart had constricted a bit when Timothy had offered her to have a go with his kite. She had only flown one once in her life, and that was before her mother had passed away. She just wished she could remember; had her father held her hands in his to make sure the wind would not tear the string out of her grasp? Had her mother made sandwiches with jelly and others with cheese and cucumber? Had she packed slabs of cake and brought bowls of strawberries with sugar and cream for them to eat till their fingers were red and sticky? Had the sky been overcast, or blue and without a cloud in sight? She thought her mother had told her to bring her coat in case it got chilly, but she couldn't be sure.

Sister Bernadette only became aware of what she had drawn when a bumblebee landed on her page and she gently sent it on his way with her fingertips. Her heart beat very fast. She had drawn Timothy and Doctor Turner surrounded by flowers, a kite no larger than a fingernail near the corner of the page. She had also drawn herself, standing next to the doctor, his arm around her shoulders.

"What are you drawing?" Timothy asked as he flopped down next to her. Sister Bernadette tore the page from her sketchbook and crumpled it into a ball.

"Just some flowers," she said, hating the way the blood shot into her cheeks.

Timothy frowned. "You're looking very hot. Why don't you just remove those stockings? They must be very thick," he said.

"Tim!" Doctor Turner warned him as he sat down next to her.

"I… I'm not allowed to," she stammered.

"You are if it is up to me," Timothy shrugged.

"Timothy, stop it! You know how nuns and their vows work," Doctor Turner growled. He shot Sister Bernadette an apologetic glance.

"Well, you know what, those stockings are really very hot, actually," she said, refusing to look at either one. "I… I think I might remove them. Just don't tell." She kicked off her shoes and unclasped her stockings, rolling them down swiftly before any further comment could be made. Doctor Turner just cleared his throat and started to unpack the picnic basket. Sister Bernadette folded her stockings and put them in her bag before opening the cake tin, shyly placing it in the middle of their blanket.

 _What on Earth were you thinking?!_ the mean voice inside her head screamed. _You can't just remove your stockings, you are a nun. You can't very well put them back on again now, either, because the doctor might see your knickers if you do._ She tucked her legs underneath her body, effectively hiding them from view. She found it surprisingly easy to drown out the mean little voice when Doctor Turner passed her one of his jelly sandwiches, accidentally brushing the pad of her thumb with his fingertip.

 _Today is going to be a good day,_ she told the sneering voice, _and I won't let anything stop me from having a good time._

Patrick felt that life was good for the first time in a long time as he swallowed the last bite of cake. He had made himself eat some of his sandwiches because he had to set a good example for Timothy, but he had to admit that his cooking was lacking, even if it was something as simple as making a meal out of bread and butter and cheese. Luckily, Sister Bernadette had brought some of Mrs. B's famous cake, saving them from Patrick's lacking culinary skills.

"That was delicious," he said.

"I hope you're referring to the cake and not your sandwiches," Timothy said. Patrick raised his eyebrow in warning. Sister Bernadette pressed a hand against her mouth hide her smile.

"Seems like you have a bit too much energy, young man. Let's go for a walk; it will help your digestion," Patrick decided. His knees popped audibly as he stood.

Sister Bernadette stretched beside him. "I'll join you," she murmured.

Timothy didn't wait for them, but raced ahead, following an invisible path along the flowers. Patrick and Sister Bernadette followed at a leisurely pace; the summer warmth was like a blanket, making them slow and drowsy and content.

"Timothy looks happy," Sister Bernadette remarked. He saw her jump slightly as flowers tickled her bare legs. Patrick tried not to stare at them. They were a milky white and dotted with freckles.

"I have to thank you, Sister, for coming with us today. I don't think Timothy would have been as happy if had been just the two of us," he said slowly.

She turned her head towards him and studied his face. "It must be difficult, being here. You must feel her presence everywhere," she said.

Patrick sighed and carded a hand through his hair. "It used to be difficult. It still is, sometimes, but you know something funny? I have found that lately my memories with Marianne are starting to hurt less and less. Some of them are still painful, but they've become a source of comfort, too." He blushed; he was not used to express his innermost emotions and thoughts out loud.

"I think it is a sign that you are… healing," Sister Bernadette whispered. They were silent, walking amongst the daisies and violets and poppies whilst absorbed in their own thoughts.

He suddenly became aware of her hand in his. He couldn't remember when they had started holding hands, whether they had been doing this from the moment they had started their stroll or whether it had begun just a few seconds ago. Patrick marvelled at the warmth her hand radiated, at the lightness of her grip. His own palm was dry and calloused; hers was soft, only slightly marred by the demanding job she did. He wanted to squeeze her digits, explore the valleys and hills of her knuckles. Her hand was small, hardly bigger than a child's. He moved his hand ever so slightly and could feel the stutter of her pulse in her wrist. Part of him wanted to bring her hand to his lips and kiss every digit, explore the map of the veins on the inside of her wrist; another part urged him to do nothing. Holding her hand felt like the most natural thing in the world. Patrick doubted whether Sister Bernadette was even aware that they were doing it, and he didn't want to upset this moment, so fragile and so pure. Instead, he focussed all his attention on his right hand and made himself remember everything about it.

Patrick was suddenly struck by how different his late wife and the little nun were, all because of her hand. Marianne's hands had been large, the fingers long and slender. She had been his first great love. He had met her when she had broken her ankle at a dance and had been struck by her shapely legs, the lovely tan of her skin. She was tall, athletic, and, for the lack of a better word, _vivacious._ Her blue eyes had simply sparkled with mischief; her red lipstick could not hide the sly smiles that lived in the corners of her mouth. She had smiled often and freely, showering affection on the people around them. Marianne was the one who had taught him to dance; with Marianne, he had bought his first house, made love for the first time. She had also been the first great sorrow of his life. Losing her had ripped his heart apart. Patrick was still learning how to live his life without her. He did not doubt that her name would for always be written on his heart, but he could not be sure whether another name might, in time, take its place next to hers.

Deep inside his soul, he knew what name that might be: Sister Bernadette. When he first met her, she still had the look of a girl about her. She had come fresh out of nursing school, her Scottish accent not yet softened. He had been struck by her energy, the energy that only the young and righteous can radiate. She was small, her body hidden by her habit. She was shy and unassuming, but Patrick had quickly learned that she was more than a pretty face; Sister Bernadette was intelligent and compassionate and, when given the chance, surprisingly witty.

Patrick still thought about Marianne every day, but more and more the gentle face of Sister Bernadette floated in front of his mind's eye, too. Sometimes, on the edge between sleeping and wakefulness, he wondered how different his life would look if she was his wife, then felt ashamed of the thought come morning.

Now, as her small hand lay cradled in his, he realised something else. Sister Bernadette was right when she told him that he was healing. What she didn't realise was that she was the source. She was like a balm, soothing his ragged heart and that of Timothy, too.

Suddenly, holding her hand was not enough, but he couldn't very well pull her in his arms and crush his lips to hers.

"Sister," Patrick whispered, and squeezed her hand. She tore her gaze away from Timothy and looked at their laced fingers. She frowned; a small line appeared between her knitted brows.

"I'm sorry," she said, her gaze startled. She unlaced her hand and shied away from him. Their separation was almost a physical pain.

"Sister," Patrick said again, reaching out for her.

She backed away, staring at her hands with something akin to horror. "I'm sorry," she repeated, and turned and made for the picnic blanket.

Patrick tore his gaze from her to locate Timothy; his son was far away, hardly bigger than a flower petal, completely focussed on whatever it was that he was doing. Patrick turned around and half-walked, half-jogged to Sister Bernadette. She was frantically putting her sketching materials in the little canvas rucksack she'd brought. Patrick was pretty sure that it originated from the charity bin, and that it would return there once this day was over.

"Sister Bernadette, please listen to me," he said, halting at the edge of the blanket. He wanted to step forward and grab her wrists, make her look at him, but he was a decent man and didn't want to upset her further.

"If you give me my ticket I'll walk myself to the station and get back to Nonnatus," she said, not looking at him.

"Why?"

"Because I can't stay. I shouldn't have come in the first place." She put the lid back on the cake tin.

"But why can't you stay? If you feel that you've hurt me, please understand that you didn't. I… I didn't mind you holding my hand."

Sister Bernadette's eyes snapped up and met his. They were very large and very blue. "Don't you understand?" she said. "I don't have control over myself when I'm with you. I have made a vow of chastity, and I've broken it twice today already, once without even noticing! I'm not responsible for my actions when you are near." Her eyes filled with tears. She angrily wiped them away with the back of her hand. "I am a nun, doctor, but I don't behave like one when I think of you. I think it is because I'm in love with you."

His heart wasn't supposed to beat so hard when she spoke those words, wasn't supposed to lurch and skip and flutter.

She smiled weakly. "And now I've shocked you, Doctor Turner. I didn't mean to; you were just trying to have a nice day with your son. Please forget what I said. I'll go now, I promise." She put the strap of the bag on one of her shoulders and clutched the cake tin to her chest. She didn't look at him as she walked past him.

Patrick inhaled deeply, then turned around and grabbed her arm. He felt her stiffen. "Sister Bernadette, please, please, please just look at me," he whispered.

She turned towards him ever so slowly, like a flower turns to the sun. She kept her eyes trained at his chest. He gently cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face towards his. A tear clung trembling to her honey lashes before letting go and dripping on her cheek.

"Please don't think that you've shocked me. Don't think that you've ruined my day, or that your affections for me were unwanted." He smiled and sighed. "I've thought about his moment a lot the past few months. I just never imagined it to be like this," he said, and brought his face to his. Her breath hitched as he pressed his lips to hers. He could see through his lashes that she kept her eyes wide open for just one moment. Then, she sighed against his mouth and placed her hand against his chest. He put his own hand over hers, trapping it over the space where his heart beat. She dropped the tin; it rolled away, down the hill. Her eyes were half-lidded with pleasure, then fell closed completely as she melted against him. Patrick held her against his chest, stroking her knuckles with his thumb, wishing that this day would never end.

Timothy regarded his dad and Sister Bernadette from a distance. He had not seen her stepping into his father's embrace. He guessed he didn't need to; the way his father's arms bracketed the little nun, the way how his hand splayed on her back told him enough.

Timothy felt that funny feeling in his tummy again. He hadn't felt it for a long time, so he hadn't recognized it the first time he had felt it that day. Now, he knew what to call it: happiness.


	11. BONUS: chapter 6, continued

**For McMackenzie, who begged me to elaborate on chapter 6. This is for you, girl ;)**

"Now, no peeking, Doctor's orders!" Patrick had said as he blindfolded his wife. Shelagh had to remove her glasses and kept them clutched in her hands, fiddling with the frame and smiling nervously.

They had been married for only a few hours, and had only just left the party to go and spend their wedding night together when Patrick had pulled a white piece of fabric out of the dashboard of his car.

"What's this?" Shelagh had asked. Her husband had just smiled at her with a devilish twinkle in his eyes.

"You will see, Mrs. Turner. It is a surprise." Shelagh kept trying to guess what on earth her husband had in store for her, but she kept pulling blanks; she honestly had no idea. Understanding what road they were taking was a lot harder now she didn't have sight to rely on, so she couldn't decide what was going on that way, either. Shelagh wiped her hands on the pearl fabric of her skirt, wishing that Patrick didn't see how nervous she was.

The wedding night. When she had still been Sister Bernadette, those words held such a different meaning than they did now; Sister Bernadette would only have to help deliver the result of nights spent in passion, would only have to be somewhat familiar with the mechanics to help others. Now, as Shelagh Turner, she would experience such a night of passion herself. She both longed for it and feared it. Would Patrick expect her to know what to do, what to say? Because she honestly had no idea.

 _Then again, you had no trouble kissing him. You became a creature of instinct, then,_ she thought. Sitting here, eyes blinded to the world, her lashes occasionally brushing the soft fabric of the blindfold, her attention inadvertently turned inwards. Years of prayer and meditation made that Shelagh could slip away from the outside world as easily as other girls slipped out of their dresses. This time, though, she didn't contemplate God or His works; her attention was absorbed by a man of flesh and blood who sat only a few inches apart from her. Soon, they would be one. The thought made her shiver; just remembering their first kiss already made her knees feel like elastic. It had not been Shelagh's intention to kiss Doctor Turner, but when she had seen him so worn-down and sad it had been the only thing she could think of to help him. A part of her was still surprised at how easy she had melted into him; they had fit like puzzle pieces. If she hadn't upset his desk, sending a teacup hurling to its death on the floor, they might very well have consummated their relationship before it had properly begun.

Part of her now wished that they had done it; it would mean no nerves now. Another part, more intelligent and calmer, thanked God on its knees that they hadn't. If Patrick– still Doctor Turner to her, then, and she Sister Bernadette to him– had made love to her, her first time would forever be tinged in shame and guilt. It would have been something done out of passion, hurt, needing and longing, and maybe a bit of love, too, but it would have coloured their relationship forever. Patrick would have insisted on marrying her, she didn't doubt that. They probably couldn't have done anything else; Mrs. Thompson had seen them, and spread malicious gossip even when they had only kissed. If Sister Bernadette had accepted Doctor Turner, however, the thought that he only asked her to do the right thing would forever linger in her mind, as would the fear that he would eventually come to resent her, to feel that she had somehow trapped him.

No, it was better this way. It had meant weeks of anguish until Timothy confronted her, true, but it had given her and Patrick the precious gift of time, allowing them to think of what they _wanted,_ not what they felt was _necessary._

Shelagh snapped out of her reverie as the car's motor died down. Patrick squeezed her hand.

"No peeking yet, Mrs. Turner," he quipped, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Shelagh sighed, then waited for Patrick to help her out of the car. He swept her up in his arms, causing her to squeal.

"Patrick!" He didn't put her down, but carried her inside, wherever that may be.

 _This isn't home,_ Shelagh thought; it was too cold for their house, and it didn't smell like Patrick's aftershave and Henleys. She inhaled deeply. It was a scent she recognized.

 _Surely not…_ she thought as Patrick gently put her down on a hard surface and removed her blindfold. Shelagh put on her glasses and had to blink a few times before the world around her came into focus. They were at the surgery, in Patrick's office. He had lit some of the lamps and tidied his desk; the normal overspill of patient's folders and ashtrays full of stubs were absent, allowing her to sit on the scratched surface. Patrick stood near her, clenching and unclenching his hands.

 _He can't think that this… surely not here…._ Her thoughts tumbled over each other. She swallowed.

"Patrick, what is this?" she whispered. Patrick threaded a hand through his hair, then took her hand and stroked her knuckles. His fingers toyed with her wedding ring.

"I wanted to tell you something for quite a while now, but I couldn't say it with all the wedding guests. And I feel that our relationship started here, in this office, making it the right place. That is not to say that I didn't think very highly of you before we… you know…" he stuttered and blushed. Shelagh squeezed his hand.

"Patrick, do you regret that day? That it didn't go any further than it did, I mean?" Shelagh whispered. Her heart was beating very fast.

"That is what I wanted to tell you. That day in here, it did put things into perspective for me, but I am glad we stopped before it could become more than a kiss." Shelagh felt her stomach clench. She wrinkled her brow, confused.

"That is not to say that I don't want to make love to you. It's just that in my office, when you were still a nun, was neither the time nor the place. And I wasn't in a position to think about your desires and wants and needs, either. If we had continued, I would have been selfish; I would have taken comfort from you, and taken and taken and not given, and that is not the kind of man I want to be. That's not the kind of man I am." Shelagh saw tears twinkle in his eyes. One separated itself from his cornea, clung trembling to his lashes for a moment, then fell. It found one of the lines of his face and lay cradled by the ridges of skin for just one moment before coursing down. Patrick sighed before continuing.

"Darling Shelagh, I want to make you a promise. I will always love you. I will do whatever is in my power to make you feel loved, to still your longings and desires, but I will do it with respect. It won't happen like our first kiss again." His voice cracked on the last word. Shelagh felt her heart tremble. She wanted to speak her feelings, but didn't know how. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her husband's chest and placed her head against his chest. His heartbeat was fast but steady, anchoring her to him. His arms snaked around her, pressing her closer. Shelagh inhaled the scent of his cigarettes and aftershave and a hint of her bouquet that clung to the lapels of his coat. Her breath trembled in her throat. She didn't realise that she was crying until Patrick's shirt stuck to her cheek. He made soft noises in the back of his throat.

"Are you alright, love?" Patrick whispered, gently stroking her hair.

 _He can touch me now,_ Shelagh thought. A shot of electricity climbed along her vertebrae; she had been deprived of touch as a little girl, and something like a caress of fingertips that was so simple to others made her want to weep with happiness.

 _And I can touch him. And there is no shame or guilt, only love._ Suddenly, she was no longer nervous. As the storm inside her stilled she found the words necessary to express what she wanted to say.

"I've just realised that I have been alone for so long. Always surrounded by others, but so, so alone. And now I have you, and Timothy, and I won't have to be alone ever again. And I know you promised me that, that day when you asked me to marry you, but I only just now fully realised what that promise meant. Patrick, I don't think I can be happier." She raised her face to his and pressed a kiss to his lips. It was just a quick peck, but it made warmth knit itself into her belly. Patrick smirked.

"Mrs. Turner, I think it is time to get you home. I promised Sister Evangelina 'no funny business', but I think I'm no longer bound to that promise, and there is a lot of funny business I want to go through with you."

"Then take me home," she whispered, and squealed as Patrick gathered her in his arms and sprinted to his car.


	12. Chapter 11

**Well I've decided to add five extra chapters to this fic, since it is by far the most well-read fic I've done and seems to be the thing you guys like the most.**

 **This chapter is based the idea that cigarettes are a metaphor within the Turnadette relationship. We can see how far their relationship has progressed based on the way they treat their cigs and each other in relation to their cigs . Of course, cigarettes symbolise desire as well (I've written an essay about this, it isn't as far-fetched as it may sound)+ I really enjoy S02X03. Enjoy!**

"Penny for your thoughts?" Patrick asks and leans against the wall next to Sister Bernadette. Her eyes flutter open and she smiles softly.

"They're not that interesting, really," she says.

Patrick lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag. He feels tired and hungry, but it pales in comparison to what Sister Bernadette must feel; the little nun looks as if she's asleep on her feet. The delivery they've just attended took twenty hours, and she was there for all of them. The adrenaline that is in her system must be wearing off, allowing her fatigue to catch up with her. She still has to cycle a few miles back to Nonnatus through the dark streets of Poplar. Patrick wonders whether the other nuns will allow her to sleep in, or whether she's still expected to rise with them in the morning and pray.

"Do you want one?" he asks, holding up his cigarette. Timothy always claims he smokes as a chimney. The truth is that he finds nothing unwinds him better after a hard day than a cigarette. He can imagine that the same holds true for the little nun next to him. He wonders if she found it hard to give up smoking when she took her vows, or whether she wasn't in to it that much, anyway.

She knits her brow, then sighs. "Just a puff," she murmurs. Her fingertips brush his as she takes his Henley, sending a jolt through his body. As she brings the cigarette to her mouth Patrick can feel his heartbeat speed up.

Sister Bernadette pouts her lips in a pretty way as she inhales, holding the smoke into her lungs for just a second before breathing out again. The smoke curls around her head, obscuring her features before falling apart. She sighs.

"I miss them, sometimes," she admits.

"You do?"  
"Only a little. Yet another small tragedy of life," she quips. They are silent for a moment, enveloped by darkness.

"You were great," Patrick says to keep other, more uncouth, thoughts at bay. "At the delivery," he adds, ensuring that she understands him properly.

She looks at him through her lashes, which sets his body humming again. "You did pretty well yourself, doctor." She pushes her tongue from between her lips to pluck a sliver of tobacco from the tip. Her tongue is a deep pink and reminds him of that of a cat.

The image takes him back to last night's dreams, in which they lay entangled like kittens. Her body was soft and warm, fitting alongside his like a puzzle piece. Her hair was honey and ginger in his dream, though it might very well be a light brown. He can't be sure, and really doesn't want to think about it; Sister Bernadette is a nun, and he has to respect that. He _does_ respect that, at least when he's awake. His dreams are traitorous, though, and they make him ashamed; he's always taken pride in his ability to work with women and to see them as his equals, not as objects.

 _But you don't see Sister Bernadette as an object,_ a small voice objects, and Patrick knows that is true. After all, he valued her as one of the most competent midwives and nurses he has ever known long before he came to…. what? Crave something more from her than strict professionality? Perhaps that is exactly where the problem lays: if she wasn't such a great nurse, she wouldn't slowly be restoring him to life without even knowing it. He just wishes that he could admire her for it without the dreams, without wondering if she really has a cluster of freckles on her collarbones, or whether her breasts…

Patrick shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. He likes to think of himself as a gentleman, and tries to nib any thought of ungentlemanly conduct in the bud.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Sister Bernadette asks, a smile ghosting around her mouth.

"I dreamed about you last night," Patrick blurts out. Only when the words have left his mouth does he realise what it is he said. His face grows hot. "I… I dreamed you took my cigarette case and didn't want to give it back," he hastily adds.

"Nuns are not allowed to have possessions," she comments, "Though I have to admit that your cigarette case is really rather handsome." She stifles a yawn.

"Do you want me to take you back to Nonnatus?" Patrick asks. He knows he should probably try and stay away from the woman next to him – _a NUN, not a woman, they're not the same_ –, but he can't help but notice how tired she looks.

"No, I would have to come back for my bike. It wouldn't be practical." Sister Bernadette takes another puff of his cigarette, then holds it out to him. His hand brushes her wrist as he tries to take the burning Henley from her and his eyes find hers. Her pupils dilate and he can feel her pulse speed up.

 _Surely not,_ he thinks, _surely those are not the signs of…_ She tears her gaze away and steps back, breaking the contact. Patrick tightens his hand into a fist to prevent himself from reaching out and enveloping her hand.

"Thank you for the cigarette, doctor," Sister Bernadette murmurs. She makes for her bike with a bit more speed than seems necessary and is gone far too soon.

Patrick looks at the Henley in his hand. It is little more than a stub now, glowing faintly as an ember. This is the second time they've shared a cigarette. Once again Patrick is struck by the intimacy of it; her lips brush the surface that still holds the memory of his own mouth, turning it almost into a kiss. He brings the bud to his mouth and closes his lips around where he imagines her mouth was just a few moments ago. He imagines that he can taste her. He sighs and grinds the bud out on the rough brick of the wall. He tries to banish the sadness that is building in him, but he doesn't succeed. The thought that this is as close as they will ever get knits pain into his stomach.

"Yet another small tragedy of life," he muses, but it doesn't feel small at all.

 **Is this cheating? I don't think so. Please leave a review if you have the time, they always make my day!**


	13. Chapter 12

**For inspoartist, who suggested that 'Sister Bernadette might have a panic attack and Dr. T has to calm her down'. Now, there was only one situation in which I thought Sister B might have a panic attack, and that is on her way to St. Anne's… (some of the lines are from the series)**

The drive to the sanatorium starts out in silence. Sister Bernadette trains her eyes on the passing landscape outside so that she does not have to look at the man next to her, so that she does not have to make conversation.

If she was not wearing a habit, she would probably turn to Doctor Turner and confess that she is scared. _But you ARE wearing the habit,_ she quietly admonishes herself, and holds her concerns and fears and feelings close to her heart. If she doesn't know that it is the TB that rattles in her lungs, she would think that her emotions are pressing on her chest, cutting off her breathing till she feels breathless and light-headed.

The buildings outside had become scarcer as their drive has progressed, and have now completely disappeared, their places taken in by trees. They zip past the window of the doctor's MG, providing little hold for Sister Bernadette's wandering mind.

A part of her wants to reach out. It wants to feel the doctor's hands on hers, his arms around her. It wants her to bury her face against his chest and smell his shaving cream and his Henleys and the scent that is his own. It is this part that takes over at night. The past few months, her dreams have become ever more… _carnal_ is the word she thinks, but it doesn't feel right; it suggests that there's only lust, and though her dreams are far beyond the realm of what is appropriate, they are not only based on physical attraction. Sister Bernadette has come to realise that her body and Doctor Turner's may be very different, but what houses inside is the same; their souls are very much cut from the same cloth.

Another part of her reminds her of the vows she has made. She did not make them lightly, and she's a woman who finishes what she starts. Having thoughts about the doctor in itself would not be wrong; having them as a nun, however, is a sin.

The problem is that this first part in her seems stronger. When she wakes up in the middle of the night, her breathing shallow and her face flushed, she mourns that her dreams are not her reality. What really makes her feel guilty is the absence of guilt. This may be a paradox, but it doesn't lessen what she feels.

As her want for – _what? Physical intimacy?_ – something she can't name grows stronger, Sister Bernadette feels her hands grow numb. The last few days have passed like a dream, or a trance. It is as if she's ensnared in a nightmare she can't wake up from, or bewitched. The only thing that seemed real was the cold kiss of Doctor Turner's stethoscope, and the hot, burning shame of it all. She has dreamed about undressing in front of him, but never like this. It is almost as if fate knew those intimate thoughts and decided to mock them.

Her fingertips turn to ice as she contemplates the coming months. Here she is, about to be whisked away to the sanatorium, removed from everyone and everything she knows. She will have to swallow pill after vile pill to force the disease from her lungs. She's under no illusions: the triple treatment is her best shot, and she should be grateful that she has fallen ill now, and not a couple of years ago. TB need no longer be a death sentence now that there's penicillin. Still, the antibiotics will make her feel dreadful and worn-out. It is not the physical discomfort that she fears, but the idea that it may still be for nought.

Sister Bernadette suddenly and acutely realises that there is a very real possibility that she may die.

Oh, she knew it the moment Doctor Turner showed her the X-ray, could not help but entertain the thought as he brought her to the London to have more tests done, but it didn't seem real then. Now, ensconced in the doctor's car, her meagre possessions packed in a battered suitcase, the reality of it all overwhelms her.

Her heart must have started racing, because it beats a painful tattoo in her chest. Her feet have gone numb, just like her hands, and her slip sticks to her skin. Worst of all are her lungs, though; they feel too small for her body, as if they're constricted by her ribs and can't draw in oxygen properly.

"Sister Bernadette, are you alright?" Doctor Turner's voice seems to come from far away, but she can still hear that it is laced with concern.

She presses her hand against her breast. Her breathing is rapid and horrible. It seems as if she's drawing in broken glass instead of air. "Stop the car," she gasps.

"What?"

"Stop the car. I can't breathe. I have to get out." She nearly chokes on the words. She wrestles the door open and nearly falls out. Her chest hurts so much that she can't stand up straight.

 _This is what dying must feel like,_ she thinks.

X

Patrick manages to get out of his car only a few heartbeats after Sister Bernadette does. They're on a deserted country road framed by trees, and he's glad for it, for it gives them a bit of privacy.

The little nun has stumbled to a birch and clutches its thick stem to keep herself upright. Her breathing is far too rapid, coming out in gasps and wheezes. There's a sheen of sweat on her face. Her hands are curled around the naked limb of the tree, but even though her knuckles are white with the force of it her fingers still tremble.

 _She's having a panic attack,_ Patrick realises. He recognises the symptoms. He should; after all, he experienced them during and after the war.

For a split second he is torn. He wants more than anything in the world to comfort her, to reach out and let her know that she is not alone, but he fears she would misinterpret his actions. They are colleagues, but they're also doctor and patient, wavering atheist and nun, man and woman. After impetuously kissing her hand every little action seems to be so much bigger, like throwing a pebble into a pond without being able to oversee the ripples that the little stone will cause. He fears that he has ruined everything that is between them and could have been between them with that kiss. Touching her now, when she is in no position to indicate what she wants, would be worse than disrespectful.

 _But you are a doctor, and she is in need of medical attention,_ Patrick thinks. Right now, she needs someone to tell her she's going to be alright, that she may feel like she's dying but she will survive, not a man torn by doubts.

"Sister?" he asks, his voice soft. He can see that she has trouble to remain standing, even with the birch to support her.

"Go away!"  
Normally he would oblige instantly, but he fears that this is the anxiety talking. "You are in need of assistance."  
"I don't want you to see me like this." The words come in stutters and stammers, one with every rapid exhale.

"I don't mind."  
"But I do! When you had to examine me…" she chokes. "I can't breathe," she whimpers, and almost tears the scapular from her neck, clawing at the fabric around her throat.

"Sister, you're having a panic attack," he says.

She stumbles. Patrick shoots forward to catch her. Her left hand closes around his like a vice. He can feel the ridge of the scar on her palm. Her fingers are as cold as winter snow. He gently lowers her till she sits on her knees.

"Tell me what you need," he whispers. Her eyes find his, and he can feel his heart crack at the raw fear he sees there.

"I can't breathe," she repeats.

"You're hyperventilating. I'll breathe with you. Just focus on me." He takes a deep breath, holds it for a couple of seconds, and slowly exhales. Sister Bernadette tries to copy him.

"Don't go away," she begs.

"Never," Patrick says, and means it. He presses a kiss to the back of her hand and caresses her knuckles once with his thumb.

"I feel like I'm dying," she gasps.

"I know that's what it feels like, but you're not dying, I promise."

She laughs at that. It sounds hollow. "But I am. I have been for a time and I didn't even know it." A sob claws its way up her throat and she collapses against him, her right hand clutching one of his lapels and her head against his shoulder. Patrick's arm snakes around her and anchors her to him to keep them both from toppling over.

"I've been dying and I didn't even know it," Sister Bernadette repeats. "I'm not supposed to be scared of dying. I know there's a better world after this one. But I'm still afraid, so so afraid. And I feel as if I'm not allowed to feel that way."

Patrick wants to comfort her, but he's afraid that speaking now will break the spell, will make the little nun swallow her words till they fester in her lungs.

"What if I never see you again?" she whispers.

Patrick is sure he can feel his heart break then.

"But you will see me again, and you won't die. The triple treatment…"  
"I know the statistics as well as you do, but right now, they're no comfort to me at all." Her breath is hot as it ghosts over his neck, sending a jolt of electricity along his spine.

"I'm sorry. You don't deserve platitudes," he murmurs. She looks up and their gazes lock. Her pupils dilate and her irises turn a very pretty shade of blue he has not seen before.

"Sister, I…" he begins.

Sister Bernadette disentangles herself from him. Her cheeks are tear-stained, but her breathing is coming more even now.

"We can't ," she says, and opens her mouth to say something more. Patrick can see something change in her face, then; it becomes still, unreadable. She loosens her grip on his hand, then pulls away completely. Just like that the walls are up around her once more, placing her far out of his reach.

"We should get back to the car," she whispers as she puts on her scapular.

Patrick wants to reach out and pull her back in his embrace, wants to continue their conversation, but he doesn't. He simply helps her up. Her legs are shaking, but she refuses his arm as she makes her way back to the car. He wants to talk to her, but he respects her too much to force her into a conversation she clearly does not want. So, their drive to the sanatorium continues in silence.

Sister Bernadette keeps her eyes trained on the road till they've reached St. Anne's.

When Patrick hands her her suitcase their fingers brush. The urge to hold her again threatens to overwhelm him, but he doesn't give in. Sister Bernadette's eyes find his. Gone is the woman he could comfort by pressing a kiss against her hand. Such behaviour would be inappropriate now, so he consoles her the only way he can: by providing her with medical knowledge gleaned from the Lancet. "The triple treatment can be miraculous," he says, and immediately curses himself for not being able to come up with something better.

Sister Bernadette gives him a wan smile. "We shall see." She takes a deep breath. "Thank you, doctor. You've been… more than kind," she decides. As Patrick watches her make her way towards the imposing building without looking back once he wonders what words she could have put in that little pause. He keeps thinking about it all the way back to Poplar, spending another drive in silence.

 **We all want Doctor T and Sister B to have a good snog, but I feel that these five extra fics are a great opportunity to explore 'other' potential kisses. So, again, not a kiss on the mouth, but I hope you guys still enjoyed it ;).**


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13, guys! Still exploring alternatives for snogging/kisses on the mouth for the first Turnadette kiss. If you guys have any ideas, let me know ;). I find I work really well with prompts and suggestions.**

Sister Bernadette awoke because her hand stung abominably. The Summer Fete was exactly a week ago, and the abrasion should have closed up nicely by now, despite her being slow healer. She kept rubbing it open at night, though, when she thrashed about because of her dreams. Oh, the dreams. Sister Bernadette had always dreamed a lot, but the past few weeks her nights had not been filled with visions of the chapel, her fellow religious sisters, or her patients, but with _him._ During the day, she could repress her emotions. At night, though, she could resist no more.

This night had been no different. She could still feel Doctor Turner's lips trailing a path along her throat to her chest, felt his breath ghosting over her skin, could feel his hands cupping her… As soon as Sister Bernadette realised that it was her own hand that lay on her breast she shot upright in bed. With the corner of her cotton sheet she first scrubbed the offending digits, then the back of her hand, and eventually her palm. She tried to calm her shallow breathing by focussing on the pain the rubbing caused. It bloomed under her skin, making her eyes sting. "It's sin, it's sordid, it's dirty," she told herself through gritted teeth.

But then she remembered how Doctor Turner had looked at that same hand just a few days ago, and a sob clawed its way out of her lungs and up her throat. He had explored the map of veins at her wrist, caressed the fleshy pad of her thumb, and held her fingers as if they were porcelain. He had been so gentle with her. Her hand throbbed at the memory. As her pulse stuttered through the wound she could feel the ghost of his lips on her hand, every heartbeat another kiss. He had loved the flesh she now sought to scourge. _No, not the flesh,_ she thought, _he loves the soul that lives inside the flesh, like he loves the woman that lives inside the habit._

Sister Bernadette took a deep breath and forced the tears back that threatened to spill from between her lashes. _That,_ she admonished herself, _is quite enough of that._ Going over her own emotions would just lead her in circles; better to get up and _do_ something, like bandaging her hand. She threw her bathrobe on, placed her glasses on her nose, and made her way to the clinical room.

The convent was a strange place at night time. Silence became a sound in those spacious hallways. As the moonlight threw puddles on the stones, cold even in summer, it was not hard to believe in God.

This night, though, the light in the clinical room was already on, chasing away the faint rays of moonlight. The autoclave was purring steadily, but there was no one in sight. _Must be one of the nurses,_ she decided, and gave it no more thought. Nonnatus was rarely completely still. Babies came at all times, and so the nurses and nuns went out at the strangest hours to deliver them.

Sister Bernadette held her hand under the tap. The steady pounding of the icy water brought back more memories, so she cleaned the wound as fast as she could before putting some ointment on the graze and wrapping it with a bandage.

As Sister Bernadette tiptoed back through the corridor she noticed that there was another lamp on, though this one was in the living room. She stepped over the threshold, intend on greeting whoever it was that had just come back from a delivery, even if that meant breaking the Great Silence. She wanted to make conversation, spend time in the presence of someone, _anyone,_ if it could help her get rid of the lingering sensations of her dreams. Instead, it seemed she had stepped right into one of her nightly visions.

Doctor Turner lay on the couch, on his side. The piece of furniture was too small for him, and his feet dangled over the edge. His shoes were lined up neatly beside it.

 _His autoclave must be acting up again,_ Sister Bernadette thought. She stood rooted to the spot. For a moment she didn't dare breathe, afraid that he would see her and she would not be able to control herself. It was only when she realised that he was fast asleep that she could release the breath she was holding. A stab of jealousy ran through her for just one moment as she saw him lying there. It was unfair that he could sleep whilst she wandered the hallways of the convent at night like a pale ghost. It wasn't in her nature to be envious, though, and her feelings softened as Doctor Turner frowned and flipped on his back. This was not the blissful sleep of the innocent, but the deep sleep of the exhausted.

Asleep, he looked younger. There were dark circles underneath his eyes, but some of the lines that gave his face expression during the day were smoothed till they were only faint impressions. Sister Bernadette could not help but feel that some of anguish that had become visible in the doctor's face was her fault.

 _God knows I do not want that. I do not want anything of this,_ she thought. She bit her lip. Her hand started throbbing again as her emotions washed over her.

She wanted him, oh Lord, she wanted him. His touch had stirred her very soul, and awakened sensations in her that she did not know exist. Men had been distant creatures, abstract in their beauty, and slightly puzzling to her, until he came along. A hole had grown steadily inside her for years. There had been moments in which she felt the presence of this cavity, this absence of something she could not name. It was only in Doctor Turner's presence that the void became an unbearable longing, a need to be filled.

But the fulfilment of this desire was sinful for a nun. If she were to renounce her vows… _Don't even go down that route,_ she ordered herself. It would not do to dwell on such thoughts. She was no stranger to sacrifice, but to leave everything and everyone behind was much to ask. Maybe too much.

Another small stab of envy carded through her. _He_ didn't have to give anything up. If a future that encompassed her dreams were to take place, that future would simply be an addition to his current life. If she decided against such a thing, his life would continue in much the same fashion. _But living is not the same as being alive,_ Sister Bernadette thought. She had seen the pain Doctor Turner was in ever since his wife had died. He tried to juggle a demanding job with the care of his son, and was always rushed off his feet. She wondered how long it had been since he had felt truly happy to exist.

She sighed and pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes. It was all terribly confusing. Her emotions were playing a tug-of-war with her, and it was only a matter of time before something would tear and give way. A hollow laugh brewed inside her lungs. Who could have thought that a simple act of compassion for a hurting child could lead to her current state of unbalance?

Doctor Turner frowned as the laugh escaped her mouth. He turned back on his side and curled up into a ball full of angles and long limbs. A small shiver ran through him; the convent did cool down considerably during the night, even in summer.

Suddenly, everything seemed remarkably simple. Her doubts and envy fell away and her empathy took over. She was, after all, a compassionate creature; caring for others was second nature. Even though she sometimes cursed her profession as a nurse and midwife – she was sure her dreams would not be so graphic if she had been anything else – it was a part of her identity. Right now, Doctor Turner needed to sleep. If she could help him, she would.

Sister Bernadette grabbed a blanket from one of the cupboards and spread it over the sleeping doctor. His fringe had flopped in his face. Sister Bernadette had the overwhelming urge to card her fingers through those strands and push them away from his forehead. She placed her hurting hand on the sofa to steady herself and used the fingertips of her other hand to touch his hair. In the half-light of the lamp the different hues of black and brown were no longer visible. His hair felt soft, but was remarkably stubborn: it sprang back as soon as she let go of it. She pushed the strands back with a little more force, revealing the doctor's lined forehead. Sister Bernadette could not help herself, and pressed a kiss to the most prominent crease.

Doctor Turner smiled in his sleep. His hand twitched and touched hers. Their fingers intertwined, and his thumb caressed one of her knuckles.

His touch set every nerve aflame. Her breathing sped up again and her legs trembled. _Get a grip,_ she told herself. "Sleep well, Doctor Turner," she whispered, her voice huskier than she had ever heard it before. She pulled away from his touch and fled to her cell, cradling her throbbing hand against her chest. Every pulse sent a flutter through the laceration. _Kiss. Kiss. Kiss._

 **Thank you guys for reading! The two remaining chapters will come soon.**


	15. Chapter 14

**In which Sister B hurts her foot and Doctor T has to come to the rescue like the proper chivalric doctor he is. Based on the prompt 'Sister B hurts her ankle/knee/hip whatever and Doctor T has to help her', suggested to me by bloghey131313.**

The scream lasted a second at most, but Patrick had years of experience of waking from the muffled ringing of the telephone downstairs and was on his feet before having made a conscious decision. Within a few heartbeats he was out of his office and across the hallway. Only a handful of seconds more and he stood outside, at the top of the stone steps that connected his surgery to the street.

Sister Bernadette was on the bottom of those steps, a tangle of limbs and navy fabric. Her wimple was splattered with dirt. Patrick guessed that her habit was just as soiled, but the deep blue hid it better.

"Sister!" he exclaimed, and almost flew down the steps.

"Careful!" she warned him, her voice higher than he was used to, "Those steps are slick as a selkie." It had rained these past few days, and the grey stone shone almost black with wetness.

"Did you slip?" Patrick asked. He knelt down next to her, found her glasses on the final step, and handed them back to her.

Her hands trembled as she put them on. "It's nothing," she murmured, and tried to get up. She cried out in pain just as Patrick wanted to order her to sit still and let him check her for injuries. Her left leg refused to carry her weight. She would surely have collapsed and fallen in the murky puddle she had upset so recently of Patrick's arm hadn't shot out to catch her. Her lips moved, but no words came out. He guessed she was either praying, or pouring out a string of silent curses. He would bet money on the former, simply because he could not see the little nun performing the latter. "That doesn't look like nothing."

"I… I think I've twisted my ankle," she whispered. She looked very pale all of a sudden, only a few shades darker than her scapular and the clean parts of her wimple. Patrick feared she might faint.

"I'll take you inside and have a look at that ankle of yours," Patrick decided. There was no way she could go back to Nonnatus like this. She could hardly stand, let alone walk or bike. _She can't very well hop up those steps, either,_ a voice whispered inside his head. He would love to call it the voice of reason, or common sense, but his heart drummed too fast at the idea of holding her in his arms for it to be either. "I'm going to have to carry you inside, if that's alright with you, Sister," he said.

"Maybe I can walk inside with your help," she suggested, her eyes not quite meeting his.

"And risk us both falling?"

"I don't want you to throw out your back."  
"I'm stronger than I look. Hauling around all that gas-and-air has given me plenty of practice. Besides, unless you can levitate, I don't see how you're going to get from here to my examination table by yourself," he quipped.

"Me, neither," she confessed, and gave a tight smile.

Patrick guessed she must really be in pain by the way she scrunched up her face and bit back a scream as he picked her up. Sweet, self-sacrificing Sister Bernadette. He had been her GP for the past ten years, but he had only seen her as a patient twice before. He thought back to those times in an effort to distract himself from her arm around his neck, from the warmth that seeped through her habit into the hand he had placed on the small of her back to support her, from the scent of starch and soap and something distinctly _her_ that nestled itself in his nose.

The first time she had come to him because of a throat infection that had rendered her almost mute. Patrick had given her a prescription for penicillin and advised her to drink lots of tea sweetened with honey. The second time it was Sister Julienne who asked him to take a look at their youngest religious sister. Sister Bernadette had fainted several times in just a couple of weeks. It had been concluded that she had low blood pressure and suffered from anaemia, for which he had given her iron tablets.

Sister Bernadette was someone who didn't complain, ever. Patrick sometimes wondered whether she had learned to keep her hurts and troubles to herself as a young child after her mother had died, or if she felt that it somehow went against her vow of obedience to complain. It wasn't his place to ask, though.

Patrick put her down on one of the examination tables and put some screens around her. The surgery was deserted at this time, but someone could walk in unannounced and he didn't want to compromise the little nun's dignity. He still had to examine her, though, and that was going to be uncomfortable for both of them, though for different reasons.

"Do you need help to remove your shoe?" he asked.

"I think I can manage," she said.

"Well, don't force it. If it won't come off, we'll cut it off," he said.

"Sister Evangelina will throw a fit if she knows I ruined a perfect pair of shoes. I've only had them for a week," Sister Bernadette said, two small lines appearing between her brows as she knit them together.

"Let her blow her top. I'll buy you a new pair." The words were out of his mouth before his brain had properly processed them. He blushed.

"I couldn't accept that," she said. Her eyes snapped up and met his, worry writ large in them. "Let's see if you can get it off without the use of scissors, then. I'll fetch my bag."

 _Get a grip, Turner,_ he told himself as he found his bag in his office. He grabbed a towel for Sister Bernadette to cover herself with, then made a detour to the kitchen to put on the kettle. He washed his hands with icy water in an attempt to get his flushed body under control again. He would be the picture of professionality as he palpated her foot, her shapely ankle, getting a glimpse of her leg without the woollen stocking…

He cleared his throat and rubbed some cold water on his wrists. This would not do. He sighed and rubbed his eyes before washing his hands again.

 _Your attraction to her is only partly physical, so stop behaving like a hormonal teenager,_ Patrick scolded himself, and knew it to be true. Her pretty face was still visible, as were her small hands and delicate wrists, but for the rest the habit did an admirable job of hiding that the body underneath was female. No, he had admired her capability as a nurse and midwife, her quiet efficiency, but most of all her compassion long before he got a glimpse from the individual, from the person she was before she was Sister Bernadette. He wondered when his admiration for her had started to slip into something more.

Patrick was not a religious man. His faith had been wavering ever since he was a teenager, and he had lost whatever lingering bit there was after the war and the death of Marianne. Sister Bernadette, however, made him entertain such religious concepts as the soul. He was still no closer to forming a definite answer to some of the bigger questions of life that had plagued him since adolescence, but he did know one thing: if there was such a thing as the human soul, Sister Bernadette had touched his, and now his soul cried out for hers.

He snapped out of his reverie and returned to his patient. He passed her the towel without looking so she could cover herself up, and waited till she told him she was ready. By the time he was ready to examine her he had himself under control again.

Sister Bernadette sat on the side of the table, her legs dangling from the edge, her eyes trained on the floor. She had managed to get her shoes off in one piece, and flashed him a brief smile as he told her he was glad he would not have to be some prince in a warped version of _Cinderella._

Patrick knelt down in front of her and looked at her foot. He couldn't help but wince in sympathy. The ankle was already swollen, the skin radiating angry reds and purples. He tried to be gentle, but Sister Bernadette still hissed as he palpated her ankle.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"I'm alright," she said, but her voice was tight.

Patrick checked for breaks and didn't find any. That was a relief, at least. It would still take considerable time before she would be able to be up and about again, though.

He knew he had to get up and wrap her ankle, that he had to tell her to keep bedrest and elevate her foot till the swelling went down, but he could not bring himself to speak. He could have guessed that her foot was small – her hands were quite tiny, after all– but he had never really thought about it. He tried to keep thoughts of her body at bay if he could. Now, with her small foot resting in the palm of his hand, he was entranced.

There was a sliver of pink nail polish on the nail of her big toe. Had one of the nurses asked to practice on the little nun's feet, or had she done it herself? Patrick was quite sure that nuns were not supposed to use things like nail polish, and the thought that Sister Bernadette had gave him a secret thrill of pleasure. He had known she was not always a stickler for rules since the Carter delivery –the idea that she snuck cigarettes from her father's desk still made him chuckle – but knowing that this trait was not mere teenage rebelliousness gave him more joy than it should. Another sign was the small bit of leg that was not covered by the towel; Sister Bernadette had shaved her legs. Patrick's only knowledge about women and their shaving habits came from Marianne. She had often complained about it; her skin was sensitive, and shaving would cause a nasty kind of irritation that would last for days. Now, it could be that Sister Bernadette simply wasn't that hairy and that she hadn't used razor blades to get rid of unwanted hair at all, if it had not been for the tiny cut near her lateral malleolus*. Patrick might not know much about women and shaving, but he could recognize a razor cut. He suddenly wondered whether the silent string of words that had poured from her mouth outside might not have been curse words, after all.

What struck him most, though, was the smattering of blisters on her heel and the side of her foot. They were large and an angry red. A look confirmed that there were several blisters on her other foot as well. "Sister, how could you walk with those?" he whispered, and stroked the skin around them.

"They're because of my new shoes. I should never have taken them. They were uncomfortable from the start, but I thought I'd break them in if I kept walking," she explained, and sighed. "Just an ordinary case of hubris, doctor."

Was it? It seemed to him that it was more a case of her trying not to break her vow of poverty. Patrick looked at her shoes. They might have been new, but he could see they were cheap. He wondered whether they were even the right size. He suddenly understood how it could that Sister Bernadette, who was always so careful and precise, had fallen down the steps. It was more miraculous that she hadn't done so sooner, her feet looking like that.

Patrick took some bandages from his case and started wrapping her foot. "This won't do, Sister, it won't do at all," he said. "You're going to need new shoes as soon as you can walk again, because we can't risk you hurting yourself like this another time. I won't allow it." He couldn't help that emotion bled into his voice. "This time it's a sprained ankle, but it could have been a lot worse. You could have broken your wrist, or your arm, or hit your head…" That didn't bear thinking about. His throat felt thick and his eyes burned.

"I'm sorry," she stammered.

He sighed and brushed her foot with his fingertips. He had nearly wrapped her entire ankle; only a small part of skin on the lateral malleolus* was still bare. Patrick couldn't help himself. He placed a quick kiss on the exposed bit of flesh, marvelling at how soft her skin was. It was a bit of information he would try to forget, but knew he could not; it would be stored deep into his heart, trying to fill the longing of a soul that ached for its mate. He instantly regretted his impetuous action, but couldn't take it back. He quickly bandaged the rest of her foot, but that only trapped the kiss against her skin and the white fabric.

"There, all done," Patrick said. He didn't dare to look her in the face. She had such expressive eyes, and he feared what he would read there. He should never have taken such liberties with her, but how to make it up to her? What if he apologised and she hadn't even noticed?

"I'll take you to Nonnatus; there's no way you can get there yourself." He cleared his throat. "I'll make us some tea," he said, and fled the room in silence.

He just wished that his heart would stop screaming her name with every heartbeat.

* the bony part on the outside of the foot; the knobbly part of the ankle that faces outside


	16. Chapter 15

**A/N: The final chapter, guys (this time really really really the final chapter). It's based on an idea of Bloghey131313, who always has the best prompts! She suggested I write something based on the idea that Tim needs to learn how to dance, and asks Sister B to help him. Doctor T cuts in to show him how it's done. Naturally, sexual tension ensues. Also thanks to inspoartist, who suggested something similar just a few minutes afterwards. Great minds think alike.**

 **I wanted to go out with a bang, so I've decided to up the kettles for this one. I've tried to make it a combination of my earlier concept and the new concept= a bit more of an elaborate story, but the first kiss doesn't start on the mouth. Well, enough of me rambling. Enjoy!**

Timothy had come to her after clinic one day, hopping from one foot on the other as he waited for the other nurses to leave.

Sister Bernadette had known instantly that he wanted to ask her something, and that that something was at least mildly embarrassing to him. She had asked him to help her put the chairs away, hoping that the question would come easier if he did not have to look at her. She found that the best way to let people talk about things that they felt ashamed about was to simply give them space to do so.

"Sister, I wanted to ask you something," he said, focussing intently on stacking a battered chair on another, equally battered chair.

"Oh?" Sister Bernadette said.

"It's about the Summer Fete," Timothy continued. He inhaled deeply and plunged ahead. "I'm going to play Maid Marian in the play, and Jack will be Robin Hood. Akela wants us to dance, but I can't, and we're going to perform for all the parents and I don't want to make an embarrassment of myself, so I wondered if you could help me practice." The words tumbled out of his mouth and the poor boy turned almost crimson.

Sister Bernadette smoothed a fold out of her habit to give herself a little more time. From all the things she thought the boy might ask her, dancing lessons had not been one of them. "Well, I'd be happy to help, Timothy, but can't your father help you?" She had heard that Doctor Turner was quite the dancer.

"I've thought about that, but Dad is always too busy. Besides, he's too tall for me."

"What about one of the nurses? They're much better dancers than I am," she suggested.

Timothy fumbled with a thread that hung from one of his sleeves. "I'd much rather you help me," he mumbled.

Her heart should not make such a joyful leap at those words. Still, she could not help but feel a bit proud that Timothy felt most comfortable with her. "In that case I'm glad to be of service," she said, and gave his hand a soft squeeze.

Timothy flashed her a hundred-watt smile. "Thank you, Sister!" he said, and ran off.

X

"Those are my toes, Timothy," Sister Bernadette said, trying not to flinch. She guessed her feet would need a few days of respite to recover from this dancing session.

They were at the surgery, dancing to a record Sister Bernadette didn't know. Outside, the sun was slowly sinking behind the other buildings, casting long shadows that flickered across the cold floor. They had chosen the surgery as the best place to practice, because it had minimised the chance of discovery; the building was practically deserted in the evenings.

"Sorry," Timothy muttered, staring down at their feet. "I didn't know nuns wore heels."

"They don't. These are Nurse Miller's shoes." She had asked the little nurse to borrow them after explaining the situation. She guessed she should be grateful that they had the same size, and that Nurse Miller could keep a secret.

Wearing dancing shoes had seemed like a good idea. The right attire was half the work, and Sister Bernadette was nothing if not a perfectionist. Why, then, did a small voice in the back of her mind tell her she was just using this as an excuse to finally give in to her desire to go and behave like the nurses, dancing with high-heeled shoes that were a feast for the eye but a pain for the feet? She had told that voice to hush, because dancing with a ten-year-old just so he would not feel mortified on stage was hardly the same as going out to a club to have a good time.

 _Then why aren't you wearing your wimple?_ the sly voice asked.

 _Because it kept getting in the way, brushing Timothy's face,_ she answered.

Sister Bernadette touched the cap on her head to make sure that it was still attached properly. She felt strangely exposed without it, even though her hair was covered completely. She guessed it was because her ears were visible for all to see. Sounds were louder than normal, because they were not muffled by thick fabric. Sister Bernadette missed the smell of starch that usually floated around her like a fragrant cloud.

"Come on, let's try again," she said.

Timothy sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I'm never going to learn how to dance," he grumbled.

"Nonsense, you just need to practice."

"Maybe it's because you are leading, and I have to be the woman. Or because I forgot the record we're actually going to dance to in my Dad's car," he said, but he still took her hand.

"Alright. One, two, three, four," Sister Bernadette counted, and they started again. They were doing quite well when a throaty chuckle broke their concentration. Sister Bernadette whipped her head around to see who had laughed.

Doctor Turner stood on the threshold, leaning almost languidly against the doorframe. He had his hands in his pockets, wore a jaunty smile, and looked perfectly handsome.

Sister Bernadette became acutely aware of the high heels she wore, and the absence of her wimple. A deep scarlet spread through her cheeks like a drop of ink spilled on paper. "Doctor Turner," she said more curtly than she had meant to, and gave him a small nod.

"I didn't know you gave dancing lessons on the side. Are the funds of Nonnatus so depleted? I don't even want to know what Sister Evangelina has to do to keep the convent going," he quipped.

Sister Bernadette couldn't help but smile.

"Dad!" Timothy said, and rolled his eyes.

"And my own son is involved, too, without telling me!" Doctor Turner clutched his chest in mock-despair.

"We were practicing for the Summer Fete. You're not supposed to see, it's going to be a surprise!" Timothy whined.

"You were doing alright, son," Doctor Turner said.

Timothy groaned and pushed his fringe from his face in an almost diva-esque fashion. "'Alright' isn't good enough. I don't want to look like a fool," he groused.

"You are progressing wonderfully," Sister Bernadette said.

"That's what you say to your patients," Timothy muttered.

"Tim!" Doctor Turner warned him.

Timothy sighed. "Sorry. It's just that I've hardly ever seen people dancing. I know I'm not doing that well, but I just don't know how I can get better, because I don't really know what it's supposed to look like." His eyes started to twinkle. "Maybe you can show me!"

Doctor Turner looked sideways at Sister Bernadette before focussing on his son. "Now, Tim, I don't…" he started.

"Oh, please! Just one dance!" the boy begged.

"Nuns can't just dance with men, Tim. We've talked about this."

Timothy looked full of despair. "But there isn't anyone else to show me."

"Sister Bernadette can't dance with me. I'm sorry, Tim, but that's the way it is."

"Sister Bernadette can speak for herself, and she can dance with the doctor if it is for educational purposes," Sister Bernadette decided. She had promised to help Timothy, so help him she would. Besides, it was only a dance.

 _Liar,_ the sly voice jeered.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable," Doctor Turner said. As he frowned the lines on his forehead became more prominent. She suppressed the mental image of placing her hand against those lines and smoothing them.

"It's just a dance."

 _Liar, liar, liar._

"I'll put another song on," Timothy said, and scooted to the record player before anyone could stop him.

Doctor Turner cleared his throat. "If you're sure…" he said, and made it sound like a question. Sister Bernadette nodded.

He took her hand in his and placed the other lightly on her back.

With her heels on, the crown of her head rested near his mouth rather than his chin. His breath tickled the baby hairs that always tried to escape from underneath her cap.

The song Tim had chosen began slow and melodious. They started to sway slowly, too, needing a few beats to find their rhythm.

It had been years since Sister Bernadette had danced, but her body remembered what to do even if she didn't. All that knowledge was there at the flick of a switch.

Whoever had told her that Doctor Turner was a good dancer had been completely right, Sister Bernadette found; he was light on his feet, leading her along gently but without hesitation. As the music of the waltz sped up, so did they. Their feet tapped the scrubbed tiles of the surgery in an ever-increasing rhythm, his the soft squeak of leather, hers a staccato of sharp taps. She only lost her footing once, during a particularly sharp twist.

When the soft scratching of the record filled the room, heralding the end of the song, they were both flustered and slightly out of breath.

"That was great!" Timothy said, clapping his hands.

Sister Bernadette smiled and slowly disentangled her hand from the doctor's.

"Thank you."

"You'll have to show me one more time so I _really_ know what to do." He gasped. "I'm going to grab the record we're going to dance to during our play!" Timothy decided, and ran off before anyone could stop him.

"What record?" Doctor Turner asked.

"I don't know. He told me he had wanted to bring it, but forgot it in the car," Sister Bernadette explained. She went to the record player and put the needle back at the edge of the LP.

"You're quite a good dancer," the doctor remarked.

"Nonsense. I haven't danced in years, and you need practice to be any good at dancing."

"You did slip once."

Her brows knit together. "Almost. And I didn't slip. You just turned too fast," she retorted.

He cocked his head and raised one of his eyebrows. "Did I?"

"You don't believe me?"

He offered her his hand. "Let's try it again, and we can see who is right."

Sister Bernadette hesitated. The small voice in her head told her she had already gone way too far, and that she should stop now she could still maintain the semblance of decency. Another voice, the one of stubbornness, told her to grab his hand and show him who was right. She only hesitated for a heartbeat before taking his offered hand.

This time, they didn't need any time to get used to each other. The dance already felt familiar to Sister Bernadette. She smiled as they swayed, going faster and faster in time with the music. Her feet kept pace with his so easily, she could anticipate whatever came next so well, she… She stumbled and fell against him as they came back to that tricky turn, tangling her hand in his jumper in an effort to stay upright.

Doctor Turner gripped her waist to prevent them from toppling over.

"I'm sorry," Sister Bernadette mumbled. Her cheeks flamed red, but she found she could not move.

The doctor held her tight, his hand splayed on her back and the other clutching her right hand as if he was afraid she could slip away at any moment.

"Now, did I turn too fast or did you not go fast enough?" he whispered, but she could not say. She could not have given him the answer even if she knew.

The palm of her left hand rested just above the doctor's heart. His heartbeat was strong and steady, only slightly raised by their dancing. His warmth seeped through the scratchy fabric of his jumper and pooled underneath her hand. Warm, too, was his breath as it ghosted over her forehead.

Sister Bernadette knew she should move, should break away from him, but she found herself unwilling to cooperate. Here, in the doctor's arms, enveloped in the spicy scent of his aftershave and cigarettes, she felt complete.

Doctor Turner's hand left her back. It travelled up along her vertebrae, over her shoulder blade and shoulder, along her throat, and came to rest on her cheek. Its skin was dry but warm, his touch feather-light.

She could tell herself she imagined the first kiss, because he placed it exactly there where her cap met her hairline. The second kiss, however, was definitely not imagined.

Doctor Turner's lips were as dry as the skin of his hands as it landed on her temple, and just as light.

Sister Bernadette sighed, a shuddery exhalation, as his lips brushed her ear. Was not wearing her wimple a grievous mistake, or a magnificent decision? She tilted her head back, like a flower turns to the sun, so she could look at him. Her half-lidded eyes found his, and their gazes locked. Something arced between them and turned the air thick with yearning.

Doctor Turner brushed her lower lip with his thumb before bending down and capturing her lips with his.

Sister Bernadette opened to him almost immediately. Conscious thought had fled her. There was only his hand caressing her face, his tongue as it danced around hers, the taste of Henleys and something she imagined to be Doctor Turner himself.

"Oh God," she moaned as the doctor stroked the pulse point behind her ear, and she did not care that she used the name of the Lord in vain.

In retaliation, she sucked on Doctor Turner's lower lip and bit down gently.

He crushed her against him and deepened their kiss.

She gasped as she felt his longing for her even through the layers of clothing they both wore. Suddenly, the kiss they shared was not enough, not by a long shot.

 _More,_ she thought, and stretched up as far as she could, angling her hips against his.

The doctor groaned and shuddered against her.

"Shh," she whispered, but he swallowed the sound in his hunger to get closer.

Her soul cried out for his. The fabric of who they were pined for closer contact, and ached acutely with the knowledge that they were touching, yet were not one. But how could the very essence of their beings merge with all this clothing in between? She wanted to know how this hard physical manifestation of the doctor's yearning for her would feel against her if there was no fabric to separate them, just skin against skin.

This want for something she could not put into words and speak out loud turned into a physical type of pain that settled low in her belly. She wanted him to lay her down, stretch over her, and press into her to fill this ache. She wanted to feel the sharp edge of his hips against hers, dig her nails into the skin on his back as she clung to him. She wanted to hear him say "I love you, Shelagh" at the height of his passion.

The memory of her Christian name made Sister Bernadette aware of what she was doing. She tore her mouth away. A sob clawed its way up her throat, but whether it was because of her unfulfilled desire or because of shame and guilt, she could not say.

Even now that she shied away from him her body betrayed her; her breathing was perfectly in sync with his.

Doctor Turner looked dishevelled and remorseful, but she saw that his desire still raged underneath his skin. Dear Lord, she wanted this man, wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. The intensity of it all filled her with fear. She was not one to lose her head; she had never expected to lose her heart, either. She stepped back, creating more distance between them.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice breaking on the last syllable.

"Don't," she said, but she wasn't sure if she told him to stop putting their sin into words, thereby making it tangible, or to tell her that this kiss was a mistake and nothing more.  
"But Sister, that was unforgivable."

"Tell Timothy he'll do well enough at the Fete." She snatched her wimple from a nearby table and hurried away, cursing her heels as they repeated the rhythm she and the doctor had danced to. She put her wimple on as she fled from him and inhaled deeply. This time, though, it was not the scent of starch that floated around her, but that of spicy aftershave and Henleys.

 _You may wash your clothes and wear flat shoes, but you won't wash away those burning kisses,_ the voice stated almost matter-of-factly. Sister Bernadette brushed her lip with her thumb, like the doctor had done, and sobbed as her soul said _more._

 **Thank you guys so much for the support and the prompts and the kind reviews. I've loved every minute of writing these chapters, and all the likes and reblogs have been huge confidence boosters.**


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